They sleep so well I think that every scruffy head's kicked the bucket in the night and I'm the only one left, and when I look out into the bushes and frozen ponds I have the feeling that it's going to get colder and colder until everything I can see, meaning my red arms as well, is going to be covered with a thousand miles of ice, all the earth, right up to the sky and over every bit of land and sea. Colin stood by the rail and watched closely. A soughing groan of pleasure was being squeezed out of the earth, and an occasional crescendo of squeals reached them from the Swingboats and Big Wheel as though an army were below, offering human sacri- fices before beginning its march. Ideas for speaking It is possible to combine writing and speaking by creating scripts and reading these aloud. Second impression, published in the same month as the first edition. The noise of kids scooting around lamp- posts and the barking of dogs came from what sounded a long way off. His one thought was to abandon the present jungle, hurl himself into the slower with which he was familiar— though in that also he felt a dragging pain that would fling him forth one day.
He puts his hands up in the air like he was being covered with a Gatling-Gun, and moved to the wall like he was going to be mowed down, and I climbed up him like he was a stile or step-ladder, and there he stood, the palms of his upshot maulers flat and turned out so's I could step on 'em like they was the adjustable jack-spanner under a car, not a sound of a breath nor the shiver of a flinch coming from him. Fuelled with all the rebellious undertones of the successful under achiever. Though still hostile the elder girl was gradually subdued by the confidently working actions of his hands, by caressing words and the kindness that showed in his face. She often mentioned how beautiful she thought it was, and how I should never part with it, how the sunrise and the ship and the woman and the sea were just right. He passes next to the discussion of honesty: the governor has told him to be honest, but he protests that he is more honest than the governor. He tried to remember things that had happened and felt panic when he discovered a thirty -year vacuum.
Because I'm slowing down now for Gunthorpe to catch me up, and I'm doing it in a place just where the drive turns in to the sportsfield— where they can see what I'm doing, especially the governor and his gang from the grandstand, and I'm going so slow I'm almost marking time. And when the dough ran out I didn't think about anything much, but just roamed the streets- looking for another job, I told mam— hoping I suppose to get my hands on another five hundred nicker so's the nice life we'd got used to could go on and on for ever. She didn't walk with her usual gait, as though she owned the terrace and everybody in it. Until then I'm a long-distance runner, crossing country all on my own no matter how bad it feels. A first edition of author Alan Sillitoe's 1959 short story collection.
But it fled from their itchy fingers— surrendered or captured, it was hard to say which— spent on shrimps and candyfloss, cakewalk and helter-skelter. I suppose they thought I was just the build for it because I was long and skinny for my age and still am and in any case I didn't mind it much, to tell you the truth, because running had al- ways been made much of in our family, especially running away from the police. Paper cover has mild edge wear with light rubbing and creasing. Raynor ran a hand slowly over his forehead. I mean it as well. I'd have to pay for a new one. Items are dispatched the same or the following working day.
Most of the girls who gave up their jobs at the shop did so because they met some common fate or other. Sometimes the reader can see these people slightly differently from Smith Sillitoe intends this to happen. He hates policemen, who come from the working-class but help those in power. I could no more have said that at first than I could have took a million-pound note from my back pocket. An owner's plate also on inside cover, no other marks to pages. The low rumble reached Mr.
Honest, I'm clambed to death. For some exam courses you may wish to do assessed work in which you compare The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner with some other text, including prose texts written before 1900. Spine ends bumped, cloth rubbed at edges with a ding at the rear. She slammed out of the house, and I didn't see her until next day. Signed twice by the author, once each on the front fly, and the title page. And this long-distance running lark is the best of all, because it makes me think so good that I learn things even better than when I'm on my bed at night. So I offered it to her again, and to settle the issue unhooked it, dusted the back with a cloth, wrapped it up in brown paper, and tied the parcel with the best post-office string.
They stood at a tea stall with full cups and a plate of buns, filling themselves to the brim. I was only a kid at the time, so you can im- agine how much I enjoyed it. A 60's sensation, and compelling still. The roundabout could go on faster, judging by shouts and squeals from the girls. Her eyes lacked that spark of humour that often soared up into the bonfire of a laugh. Her round eager eyes were fascinated, yet fol- lowed each movement of his hands with some apprehension. He got his own back right enough, or thought he did, because he had me carting dustbins about every morning from the big full- working kitchen to the garden-bottoms where I had to empty them; and in the afternoon I spread out slops over spuds and carrots growing in the allotments.
The blue sky was full of sunshine and it couldn't have been a better day, and all of the big show was like something out of Ivanhoe that we'd seen on the pictures a few days before. I just didn't know the chap. But even though some people would call this frost-pain suffering if they wrote about it to their mams in a letter, I don't, because I know that in half an hour I'm going to be warm, that by the time I get to the main road and am turning on to the wheatfield footpath by the bus stop I'm going to feel as hot as a potbellied stove and as happy as a dog with a tin tail. Her back was to the wireless, and it didn't seem as if she wanted to look at me. Does anything in the author's method encourage sympathy? They were on the asphalt path of the Forest, ascending a steep slope.