TWENTY-ONE
THE JOURNALIST, THE GOSSIP COLUMNIST
Cecelia and Pimple, with Father O’Brien in tow, crossed the narrow lane that was Frisian Tun, and stopped outside number five, where Amanda Austin’s head and shoulders were visible over the garden wall. She was tall and rested her chin on her folded arms on top of the wall; a comfortable look-out.
‘Mike’s out and has Ceeley and Pimple with him,’ she shouted, turning her head back to the partially open, expansive, Georgian sash window that reflected the setting sun to cast a tawny tinge across the forecourt, which was poetic if you were a poet, but otherwise blinded the shite out of you, so much so you frustratingly could not see into the window.
And we all know how much we like to peek into other peoples' windows.
Therefore, you couldn’t
