"Robert Rankin - The Greatest Show Off Earth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

Robert Rankin

The Greatest Show Off Earth
How Raymond came to meet the flying starfish from Uranus. And
how that same flying starfish taught him the meaning of the word
'schmuck'.

If you enter the village from the end where the common is, turn left at the mini-roundabout
that everyone drives straight across, take the first right beside the big house that's always
being done up, then you'll find yourself in King Neptune's Road.
Go down it for about half an old mile. Pass the overgrown playing field, the youth
club where they play the loud music on Mondays, The Jolly Gardeners where music is never
allowed, the road where Simon lives, and the big green corrugated workshop of Vinny the
Builder.
The-lane-that-dare-not-speak-its-name is tucked away on the left, at the very top of
the hill.
You will have to drive quite carefully down the lane, because it is full of potholes that
no-one wants to take responsibility for. But if you do make it safely to the bottom you'll
notice several houses hiding there.
There's the horrid new one, with the satellite dish and the three bad dogs; the proud
red tile-hung job on the corner, where the mad old major lives. And, up on the bank, the little
Victorian cottage with the cast-iron gate.
And that's Raymond's house.
Of course, if you happen to come into the village from the other direction, it can all
get really complicated.
So the best thing would be to stop and ask at the post office. But if you do have to ask
at the post office, then ask either the lady with the dyed blond hair or her assistant with the
nice blue eyes. Don't ask the bald postmaster who's 'a bit of a lad', or the ancient granny who
sits and knits. Because they both hate Raymond, so they'll probably give you the wrong
directions.
Oh yes, and if you get there any time after six of a warm spring evening, you won't
find Raymond at home anyway. He'll be at work on his allotment. And God only knows how
you get there.
Naturally Raymond knew the route to his allotment well enough. He even knew the
short cut. But then he knew his way all around the village. He'd lived in the village for all of
his life so far and he knew all of the things it was necessary to know.
He knew where to go on Mondays if you wanted to hear loud music. And where to
drink the rest of the week if you didn't. He knew better than to attempt the retrieval of another
tennis ball from the garden of the horrid new house with the satellite dish. And he knew that
the potholes in the-lane-that-dare-not-speak-its-name were not his responsibility.
Raymond was twenty-three years of age. His eyes were blue and his hair was brown.
His height was a little under six feet. And his feet were a little over size nine. He worked for
Vinny the Builder on the big house that was always being done up. And when he wasn't
working, or listening to loud music, or drinking quietly, or disavowing responsibility for
potholes, and it was after six on a warm spring evening, as it was now, he could, like as not,
be found digging on his allotment.
It was mostly digging that Raymond did there. The actual planting and nurturing and
harvesting aspects of allotment life were, as yet, terra incognita to him. He had sent off a
postal order for a manual on the subject, but it had failed to arrive within the promised
twenty-three days. Raymond had telephoned the publishers, who assured him that it had been