“Well, I’ll be bloody...” Ove thunders through the window as the wheel of the trailer rolls into his flowerbed.
A few seconds later his front door seems to fly open of its own accord, as if afraid that Ove might otherwise walk straight through it.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ove roars at the woman. “Yes, that’s what I’m asking myself!” she roars back.
Ove is momentarily thrown off-balance. He glares at her. She glares back.
You can’t drive a car here! Can’t you read?The little foreign woman steps towards him
and only then does Ove notice that she’s either very pregnant or suffering from what Ove would categorize as selective obesity.
“I’m not driving the car, am I?” Ove stares silently at her for a few seconds.
Then he turns to her husband, who’s just managed to extract himself from the Japanese car
and is approaching them with two hands thrown expressively into the air and an apologetic smile plastered across his face.
He’s wearing a knitted cardigan and his posture seems to indicate a very obvious calcium deficiency.
He must be close to six and a half feet tall. Ove feels an instinctive skepticism towards all people taller than six feet;
the blood can’t quite make it all the way up to the brain. “And who might you be?” Ove enquires.
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