The one which the Pregnant Foreign Woman apparently could not read, even though Ove knows very well that it’s quite impossible not to see it.
He should know, because he’s the one who put it there.
Dissatisfied, he walks down the little footpath between the houses,
stamping his feet so that anyone who saw him would think he was trying to flatten the tarmac.
As if it wasn’t bad enough with all the nutters already living on the street, he thinks.
As if the whole area was not already being converted into some bloody speed bump in evolutionary progress.
The Audi poser and the Blond Weed almost opposite Ove’s house,
and at the far end of the row that communist family with their teenage daughters
and their red hair and their shorts over their trousers, their faces like mirror-image raccoons.
Well, most likely they’re on holiday in Thailand at this precise moment, but anyway.
In the house next to Ove lives the twenty-five-year-old who’s almost a quarter-tonner.
With his long feminine hair and strange T-shirts.
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