Blitz. Robert Westall

warm. Keep pulling.”

      So we dragged him, still laughing and shouting, “Lay off, kids.” And so we got him to a safe distance, and put his boots back on, him giggling and saying that we tickled.

      “’Nother fag, kid?” he said.

      I said, with low cunning, “Haven’t got any more. But me dad’s got plenty. I’ll take you to him, if you’ll get up and walk.”

      We got him up and walking in the end. But to keep him pointing in the right direction … He would wander off to one side to admire a dandelion. Or a pile of dog-dirt.

      “S’funny. Dog-dirt’s a beautiful brown. But nobody likes it.”