I was straining to
hear, well, anything actually, when my husband returned looking
rather forlorn. I gave him my expectant, I'm waiting
look.
“Oliver
Twist has come to talk with Oak,” he shrugged.
I
waited, continuing with the look.
“Young
boy, maybe twelve,” he told me, “Dressed in the rags of a
Victorian guttersnipe, has come to see Oak and talk in an unnaturally
deep voice. My presence wasn't required, so now I'm here with you.”
“What
do you think of Oak?” I asked quickly.
“I
don't like the blighter,” he replied. “He either thinks that
we're somehow the problem, or that we don't matter at all. I suppose
to him we don't.”
