te or t seemed to be keeping pace rain. t type, neting opposite me. One of t tted me for one of t tion full of legal baloney t  to impress t of us and s t belong to the common herd.

    I c. t Bletc of t it’s kind of peaceful, t of little backyards s of flouck in boxes and t roofs  black bombing plane stle in t I couldn’t see it. I ting o t it for just a second. I kneter it’s  o be a o ts noime, one year’s time, ing our bags .

    t down his Daily Mail.

    ‘templegate’s winner come in,’ he said.

    ting some learned rot about fee- simple and peppercorns. t in coat pocket and took out a bent oodbine.  in t and to me.

    ‘Got a matcubby?’

    I felt for my matcubby’, you notice. t’s interesting, really. For about a couple of minutes I stopped t bombs and began t my figure as I’d studied it in my bat morning.

    It’s quite true I’m tubby, in fact my upper  exactly tub. But eresting, I t merely because you o be a little bit fat, almost anyone, even a total, stranger, ake it for granted to give you a nickname t’s an insulting comment on your personal appearance. Suppose a c or a o remind ? But every fat man’s labelled as a matter of course. I’m type t people automatically slap on t. I never go into t Pudley (I pass t  t ass aters,  ired of. aters  a finger like a bar of iron. t man doesn’t have any feelings.

    took anotco pick eetrain  a glimpse of a baker’s van and a long string of lorries loaded . t in a  about fat men. It’s a fact t a fat man,