DoyouknowtheroadIlivein—EllesmereRoad,WestBletchley?Evenifyoudon’t,youknowfiftyothersexactlylikeit.

    Youknowhowthesestreetsfesterallovertheinner-outersuburbs.Alwaysthesame.Long,longrowsoflittlesemi-detachedhouses—thenumbersinEllesmereRoadrunto212andoursis191—asmuchalikeascilhousesandgenerallyuglier.Thestuccofront,thecreosotedgate,theprivethedge,thegreenfrontdoor.TheLaurels,theMyrtles,theHawthorns,MonAbri,MonRepos,BelleVue.Atperhapsonehouseinfiftysomeanti-socialtypewho’llprobablyendintheworkhousehaspaintedhisfrontdoorblueinsteadofgreen.

    Thatstickyfeelingroundmyneckhadputmeintoademoralizedkindofmood.It’scurioushowitgetsyoudowntohaveastieck.Itseemstotakeallthebouofyou,likewhenyousuddenlydiscoverinapublicplacethatthesoleofoneofyourshoesisingoff.Ihadnoillusionsaboutmyselfthatm.ItwasalmostasifIcouldstandatadistandwatchmyselfingdowntheroad,withmyfat,redfadmyfalseteethandmyvulgarclothes.Achaplikemeisincapableoflookinglikeagentleman.Evenifyousawmeattwohundredyards’distanceyou’dknowimmediately—not,perhaps,thatIwasintheinsurancebusiness,butthatIwassomekindoftoutorsalesmahesIwaswearingwerepracticallytheuniformofthetribe.Greyherring-bo,abittheworseforwear,blueovercoatcostingfiftyshillings,bowlerhat,andnogloves.AndI’vegotthelookthat’speculiartopeoplewhosellthingsonission,akindofcoarse,brazenlook.Atmybestmoments,wheanewsuitorwhenI’msmokingacigar,Imightpassforabookieorapubli,ahingsareverybadImightbetoutingvacuumers,butatordinarytimesyou’dplacemecorrectly.‘Fivetotenquidaweek’