ary arrangements are not altogetisfactory. t-cart only calls once a month, I believe.’

    ‘You mean turned to a rubbish-dump?’

    ‘ell, ture of a—’  to dispose of tins and so fort clump of trees.’

    e  across t a ferees to . But yes, t   made a great round y or ty feet deep. Already it was in cans.

    I stood looking at tin cans.

    ‘It’s a pity t,’ I said. ‘to be some big fis pool.’

    ‘Fis t. Of course  it ime.’

    ‘I suppose t a good long time?’ I said.

    ‘Oen or fifteen years, I think.’

    ‘I used to kno  any  Binfield  t little bit of copse over t c on my way here.’

    ‘A! t is sacrosanct. e o build in it. It is sacred to ture, you kno me, a kind of roguisting me into a little secret: ‘e call it the Pixy Glen.’

    t rid of  back to to Loin cans. God rot t t you like— call it silly, c doesn’t it make you puke sometimes to see o England, er gnomes, and tin cans, wo be?

    Sentimental, you say? Anti-social? Oug to prefer trees to men? I say it depends rees and  t t it, except to wiss.

    One t as I drove doion of getting back into t. ’s trying to revisit t exist. Coming up for air! But t any air. tbin t ratosp particularly care. After all, I t, I’ve still got t. I’d  of peace and quiet, and stop bot o Lower Binfield. As for my idea of going fis was off, of course. Fis my age! Really, .

    I dumped to t  in time to  fe gave me a bit of a jolt, I admit. For the words I heard were:

    ‘—where his wife, hilda Bowling