A literary imp was always lying in wait for MarkTwain; the imp of the burlesque, tempting him to do the 'outre', theoutlandish, the shocking thing. 'Well, what else could you have done, faced with that spiteful little pinko? You handled him very well. Let's throw them a few crumbs of comfort. Bisley, Gloucestershire 1987.
It was Sarah Stratton. ''It's a terrible gamble,' said Declan broodingly. Can I come with you?'The Inter-City, belting towards Bristol, swayed like a drunk as they walked towards the buffet car. Like all PAs that autumn, Daysee wandered round clutching a clipboard and a stopwatch, wearing loose trousers tucked into sawn-off suede boots, and jerseys with pictures knitted on the front.
Join the newsletter to receive news, updates, new products and freebies in your inbox.