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

the Campbell, in song and in whistle, limped on.
As he reached the Ealing Road the Campbell turned left and limped past
Bob the Bookie's and Peg's Paper Shop.
Norman Hartnel1, husband of the abundant Peg, numbered the daily
papers, a sprightly whistle issuing between his lips. He viewed the Campbell's
passing through the shop's front window, which was sorely in need of a clean.
Norman momentarily ceased his whistling and crossed himself at the
Campbell's passing, for Norman feared the Campbell as surely as the
Campbell feared precipitation, but Norman had not yet come to live with his
fear. Upon this particular November morning, Norman wore a shirt that was
in need of an iron, a shop coat that was in need of throwing away, trousers
that were in need of a crease and a pair of black brogues that were never in
need of a polish. Because Norman had once been in the Navy, and those who
have once been in the Navy always polish their shoes.
When the Campbell's passing had passed Norman by, Norman took once
more to his sprightly whistling, and once more to the numbering of papers н
although now incorrectly, and in a less steady hand.
"Norman," came the voice of Peg, bounding from the kitchenette and
striking the shopkeeper in palpable waves that travelled through his wig and
rattled the back of his head. "Norman, have you finished yet?"
"No, my dear, not yet." Norman chewed upon his bottom lip. She hated
him, that woman, Norman knew that she did. But Norman didn't hate her in
return. He still loved his Peg, his little Peg, his pretty little Peg. But she was no
longer the Peg of old, with whom he'd shared kisses and more down beside the
canal. She was no longer little, and nor was she pretty. But her Norman still
loved her. In his way.
"Get a move-on, you lazy sod." Further sound waves struck the shopkeeper
and Norman got a move-on.
Norman always enjoyed the numbering-up of the papers. He enjoyed
being the first in the borough to read the news of the day. He enjoyed the
responsibility of sending Zorro the paperboy forth into the borough, bag upon
his shoulder and bicycle saddle beneath his bum, to spread the daily news.
Most of all, Norman enjoyed the numbers of the numbering-up. Norman
had a preoccupation with numbers. Numbers were Norman's current
obsession.
"Everything," Norman had told Neville, the part-time barman of The
Flying Swan, during a recent lunchtime session when Norman should have
been at the cash-and-carry purchasing bulls' eyes, mint imperials and party
packs of Fisherman's Friends, "everything is dependent upon numbers.
Everything can be explained numerically. Everything can be reduced to a
numerical equivalent."
"Everything?" Neville cast Norman a quizzical glance with his good eye
and continued his polishing of an already dazzling pint glass. "Surely not every
single thing?"
"You name it," said the numerate shopkeeper, "and there will be a number
to its rear somewhere about."
"Cheese," said Neville, as he so often did when stuck for something
sensible to say (which wasn't so often as it might have been, as Neville was
noted for the wisdom of his words).
"That's too easy," Norman said. "The entire cheese-making process,