Now, you people have names. Thatʼs because you donʼt know who you are. We know who we are, so we donʼt need names.”
there was an old rose garden, filled with stunted, flyblown rosebushes; there was a rockery that was all rocks; there was a fairy ring[3], made of squidgy brown toadstools which smelled dreadful if you accidentally trod on them.
“Itʼs bucketing down[4].”