"Robert Rankin - THe Suburban Book of the Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

Beautiful garden, lovely setting, fabulous house. And what did she want? An indoor toilet! One
trivial oversight on his part, and all this fuss. Perhaps if he'd stayed around to supervise the
actual construction of the house, rather than carousing with his chums at the local grog shop, he
might have noticed the omission. Perhaps if he had not employed the services of Bloodaxe and Death-
blade, Builders to the Aristocracy. Perhaps, perhaps. But there it was.

Rex considered the ramshackled outside dunny he had thrown together. It niffed a bit, but was
surely adequate to their daily needs. There was just no pleasing some people. Women were strange
and exotic creatures and no man, even one as obviously thoughtful and sensitive as Rex, could be
expected to understand them fully. The lady wanted an indoor flush toilet plumbed to an outside
septic tank system and that was that. She would brook no compromise and there would be no peace in
the

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marital home until the pit was dug and the tank was in. That was the specific order of the day, as
it had been for more days than Rex cared to remember. There was nothing for it. The deed would
have to be done.

Rex fingered his big red ear, plucked up the spade and made a very bad face indeed.

Now, as with most things, there is a fine art to the successful laying in of a septic tank. And
its correct location plays a very large part in the thing. It must be placed just so. Too near to
the house and it can become a serious hazard to the nostrils in the hot weather. Too far and the
pipes may freeze in the cold. The composition of the soil is of supreme importance, as is that the
site chosen is at a lower level than the toilet. Then of course there are the planetary aspects to
be taken into con-sideration, the local ley system and a careful check to make sure you're not
digging up a fairy's house. You can never be too careful. The correct location is everything.

'That will do nicely,' said Rex, spying out the nearest area of unfilled land. 'Ideal.' He stalked
over, dragging his spade behind him, and peered down at old mother earth. Old mother earth stared
back in a hard, un-compromising sort of fashion. She said, 'Just you try it.'

'I'm not really a spade man,' Rex told the sod. 'More a trowel and dibber fellow me. I generally
leave the actual digging side of things to that nice little man with the Wellington boots and
wheelbarrow who comes in twice a week. In fact, now that I come to think about it, I generally


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leave all the trowel and dibbering to him also. In fact,' Rex stroked his manly chin, 'I hardly
ever come out in this garden at all. I hate gardening.

'You see,' he continued, 'I'm more your man of action. My forte is for heroic deeds. The saving of
civilizations. Putting my life on the line in the cause of truth, justice and some way or another.
I'm the stuff of legend. I'm not a digger of poo pits.' Rex took the offensive spade in both

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