Pastures Nouveaux [antikvár]

ChapierBang on 8 a.m., the car alarm that had been shrieking all night finally stopped. After a two-second pause, the road drills began. Rosie could hold back no longer.'Mark? You know we've been talking about moving to the countryside . . .''You've been talking about it, you mean,' corrected Mark, hunched over his bowl of Cheerios and flicking rapidly through the newspapers. 'I don't believe it,' he groaned.'I know.' Rosie pressed her hands to her ears. 'They only dug up that patch a week ago. Something to do with cable TV. .'Not that,' said Mark, his spoon dripping milk as he shook it at the centre spread of a tabloid. 'This. The Mail's got Matt Locke. "We've been trying to get him for ages.''Who's Matt Locke?'Mark looked at her, exasperated. 'Honestly, you're like that judge who asked "WTio is Gazza?". Don't you ever read the papers?''You know I don't. Apart from the horoscopes.' No doubt, Rosie thought, she was missing something. But she failed to share the awe with which Mark regarded newspapers in general, and his job on one in particular. After all, it wasn't as if he was setting the nationalnews agenda, exposing fraudsters or bringing corrupt politicians to book. As far as Rosie could make out, Mark's job as assistant editor on a Sunday lifestyle section mostly involved rewriting other people's articles - 'tickling up' as he called it - and attempting to persuade celebrities to give interviews