"Robert Rankin - Knees Up Mother Earth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robert Rankin)

"A gingham pinafore about your shoulders and a feather duster in your
hand."
"Yes," said Norman and he sighed once again. "Your eyes do not deceive
you. Where there's muck, there's brass, they say, and a penny saved is a penny
earned."
"Right," said Jim, giving the shop a visual once-over. It was as ever it had
been (and in the Brentford shape of things, as it ever should be) wretched. The
sweetie jars lining its sagging shelves were the same jars that Jim had gazed
longingly at as a child. Several actually contained the selfsame sweets. The
faded adverts for tobaccos and snuffs н products that were now little more
than memory н still patched over the Edwardian wallpaper. The cracked
glass-fronted counter presented a fearsome, if dusty, display of out-of-date
fireworks. The video section was velvet with dust. The lino was yellow and so
was the ceiling. Colour co-ordinated. Just so.
"It's all just so," said Jim. "Why would you wish to dust it?" And here a
tremulous tone entered Pooley's voice. "You haven't won the Pools, have you?"
"The Pools?" Norman scratched at his brow with the non-feathered end of
his duster. "Have you become bereft of your senses?"
"It's a personal philosophy thing," Jim explained, inadequately. "So you're
just having a little dust?"
"Peg," said Norman, which explained things more than adequately.
"A Sporting Life and five Woodbines please," said Jim. "And I have the
right money and everything."
Norman placed his feather duster upon the counter and sought out the
Woodbines. They were to be found where they were always to be found.
Except today they were not to be found, because Norman had run out of
Woodbines and forgotten to order any more.
"I'm out," said Norman.
"That is a statement easily proved erroneous," said Jim, turning a copy of
the Brentford Mercury in his direction and perusing the front page, but failing
to take in the dire headline regarding the terrible fate that most probably lay
in store for Brentford's football ground. "You are not out, but clearly here.
Body and soul. Mind and spirit. Duster and pinnie and all."
"Out of Woodbines," said the shopkeeper.
"Out of Woodbines?" It was Jim's turn to scratch at his head and in
deference to Norman, he, too, did so with the feather duster. "You're never out
of Woodbines."
"Am today." Norman plucked the feather duster from Jim's hand, a hand
which now grasped it rather too firmly. Brightly coloured feathers fluttered
towards the linoleum. "Look what you've done to my duster."
"Out of Woodbines?" Jim now shook his hungover head and attempted to
digest this unthinkable intelligence. "I don't know what to say."
"You could say, `I'd like a packet of Senior Service instead and here's an
extra two and sixpence for a new duster.'"
"I could," said Jim, "but I think it most unlikely that I would."
"How about five Capstan Full Strength and two bob for the duster, then?"
"I think I'll just take the Sporting Life. There might be a packet of
Woodbines left in Neville's machine at The Swan."
"Ah, no." Norman dithered. He was a businessman, was Norman. He also
considered himself an entrepreneur. It was more than his soul could stand to