Together
From our UK edition
at arm’s reach, side by side, more than twenty-five feet up our treble extension ladders, shuddered by artics and buses thundering up and down Newcastle Street. But Stanway won’t lend me his scraper. It would take seconds, less than a minute, to run it around the window frame where wood meets glass, scrape off the loose paint. But he’d prefer to see me edging back down, clinging on to the bowing side rails, hurrying back to our caravan on the waste ground, rummaging under the bench seats until I find mine that slipped from my overalls at breakfast, then bollocking me for losing time.