“They do three chocolates for a pound.”
“What? A pound?”
“Yeah you get three chocolates and you only pay a pound”
The little chubby boy scratched his head, and then cocked it to the side.
“Really? A pound? Where?”
My brother, tall and skinny and slight of frame, pointed somewhere to the left.
“Round the corner there,” he said. He shrugged his shoulders. His knees were jittering from side to side, he was keen to get his three chocolates for a pound.
“OK. You go and get me some, and I will wait here.”
“I’m going to get myself three chocolates from the shops.” My little brother glanced sheepishly at our house, then, “You wait here and play, okay?”
Then he was off, his long legs pumping, his fingers held together, straight over open palms as they sliced the air, trainers flying over the pavement. He was a whizzing blur past our window and he vanished in a flash.
When he came back into the house a few minutes later, panting, he told us a car crashed into a fence as he was walking past it, narrowly missing him.