"Robert Rankin - The Witches Of Chiswick" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

as it was, by twentieth-century DIY enthusiasts the world over as “The
Timber of the Gods”, “The Carpenter’s Friend”, “The Wood That Won The
West”, and many other such appellations.
You didn’t see a lot of it about on this day beyond tomorrow, what with
there being so few trees left to cut down and hew. Two-by-one was hard to
find, although, in truth there were very few now who actually went
searching.
Will’s father, William Starling senior, occupied a more orthodox sit-upon:
it was Post Christian Orthodox, of the IKEA persuasion. Will’s father was a
part-time lay preacher to the Church of IKEA (IKEA having brought out the
Christian franchise some fifty years before).
Will’s mother did not share her husband’s faith; she remained true to
the church she had grown up with. She was a Sister of Salisbury’s. Her
seating was a family heirloom: a white plastic garden sofa, dating from the
age of private gardens, and a collector’s item in itself, should the age of
the collector, or indeed the private garden, ever return. The sofa’s sidearms
had been cut away to afford admittance to her broad posterior. Will’s mum
was a very substantial woman.
But for these items of seatery, the breakfasting area was, as all other
breakfasting areas in the housing tower were, bright and orange. Just the
way that the future had been promised to be, in a time before it was.
“You’ll need to put on your chem-proofs, Will,” said Will’s mum,
swallowing a fried eggette (a synthetic egg, packed with goodness and
minerals) and scooping up another with her spoon. “And your weather
dome. Coffee, husband?” She proffered the plastic pot.
“As it comes,” replied her spouse, urging another sausage into his
mouth, “that’s the way I like it.” He smiled winningly towards his son.
“Take heed of what your mother says,” said he, as he chewed. “Upon this
occasion she isn’t talking twaddle.”
“I certainly will,” said the son of Starling. “I never, ever take risks.” This,
however, was a lie. Will did take risks. Will thrived upon risks. Sadly for
Will, the opportunities to take risks rarely arose, but when they did, he was
always ready and willing.
Will’s father reached across the breakfasting area and placed a mighty
hand upon the forearm of his son. “You are a good lad, Will,” he said. “You
make your mother and me proud of you. We care about you, you know that,
don’t you?”
“I’ve never had cause to doubt it,” Will eased his arm from beneath the
pressure of his pater’s portly palm, “except upon one or two occasions, such
as the time that you tried to sell me to Count Otto Black’s Circus
Fantastique because you needed money to buy Mum a new wig.”
“A God-feeling woman can never have too many wigs,” said Will’s mum,
downing another fried eggette.
“It’s God-fearing,” said her husband, helping himself to yet another
sausage. “But your mother’s right, Will. Do you recall the time that your
Aunt May was caught wigless at the wedding of a tribal chieftain? That
reflected very poorly on the family.”
“Yes, but trying to sell me to a freak show …”
“A Carnival of Curiosities,” said Will’s mum, downing yet another
eggette. “An Odyssey of Oddities. A Burlesque of the Bizarre. A—”