Progress was slow leaving town; an on-rolling cortège floated along the exit road, playing a dirge; a fine celebration of the emotion called sadness. Crammed into an old, long three-wheeler; like the great polymath Jankonster Bullarton used to invent on a daily basis, in his attempts to save the automobile industry; their faces squashed-up against the tobacco-glass, reflections of the diseased trees, rolling along and wrapping down around the edges; flitting away. The pace was slow, moving at a blip above standing still. The horns were  gurgling and moaning, a tin cymbal ‘shishing’ and ‘ffffishing’ and ‘wissshing’; the band hanging-on, tiptoes on the running boards, playing one-handed; unpredictable changes of chord and key, sending your heart tumbling into the ground.

Ho! Ho! – Rarna thought – Oh! Yes! So nice.

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