‘Luxury is no longer just a word,’ he read by the light that crept under the broken outhouse door. Peering, Tom made out the little pup in the picture, and he was running gleefully, a paper ribbon dancing behind him. Ah, there’s the stuff, he reflected, the very stuff of life streaming out behind the runt, that coddling, warming, lovely stuff, ready to swaddle you up and swab away your cares.
‘Luxury,’ he said, and, tearing the paper from the length of string, he wiped his arse and flushed away his last square of the Daily Mirror.
