Extricating herself from the maternal web last night had meant that Liz hadn't
got on to the motorway until 10 p.m., and hadn't reached the Kentish Town flat
until midnight. When she let herself in she found that the washing that she 'd
put on on Saturday morning was lying in six inches of cloudy water in the
machine, which had stopped mid-cycle. It was now far too late to start it again
without annoying the neighbours, so she rooted through the dry-cleaning pile for
her least crumpled work outfit, hung it over the bath, and took a shower in the
hope that the steam would restore a little of its élan. When she finally made
it to bed it was almost 1 a.m. She had managed about five and a half hours'
sleep and felt puffy-eyed, adrift on a tide of fatigue.
With a gasp and a long, flatulent shudder, the tube train restarted. She was
definitely going to be late.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...