Rover 25 1.6 SXi. 5dr Hatchback, 2004, blue, one extremely careful owner from new, ONLY 8,000 miles on the clock, yes that's correct, ONLY 8,000 miles on the clock, pristine condition, almost like brand new, for sale at the amazing, once-in-a-lifetime price of £1,200. Don't hang around, it won't be here long!!!!!JASON Monk adjusted the seat to make sure his wiry 5ft 7in frame was comfortable and that his feet could reach the pedals. The previous owner must have been very tall and the wooded, beaded seat cover would definitely have to be ditched.He drove out of the second hand car lot and onto the main road. It was his first ever car, and in mint condition, inside and out. A furry dice air freshener bobbed around in front of him and the dashboard had been polished to near perfection: it reminded him of his gran's front room which was only used for guests and special occasions.The sun was shining and he wound the window down to let the breeze flutter around his head, now shorn of long, straggly black hair once divided by a severe centre parting. It had been hard, having the hair shaved off but it would be worth it.Jason nodded rhythmically to the sounds of White Zombie's Black Sunshine, a song about a Ford Mustang, blasting out of the CD player. Okay, the car was only a Rover 25, but it would get a bit of cosmetic work such as yellow go faster stripes and Rota GT3 red alloy wheels, once he had saved up some more dosh.He had made many sacrifices to raise the cash to buy the car, including selling his prized collection of Iggy Pop posters, but, as with the hair, it would be worth it.Jason began to focus on the task ahead - winning the heart of Poppy Stewart.Poppy had told him that she would never go out with someone who didn't have a car and now Jason had wheels. She also wasn't a rock chick and hated long hair and now Jason had none, and in an hour he was due to pick her up from outside the hairdresser's where she worked, then on to Nandos as she had insisted on Jumbo chicken platters and watermelon Bacardi Breezers. He couldn't wait.Poppy Stewart looked a bit like Katy Perry but had freckles and ginger hair and okay, she was bit spindly and bow-legged but to Jason she was his dream woman. They had met in the queue at Greggs when Poppy spotted Jason's 'Mum' tattoo on the back of his neck (his hair had been tied back in a ponytail that day) and had cheekily asked whether the rocker was also a mummy's boy. When Jason replied that he wasn't embarrassed to admit that he loved his mum, she touched him on the arm and said: “Aaah.” That had sent shivers pulsating through his body, and he was hooked.As he pulled up at a set of traffic lights on red, Jason let his imagination go into overdrive and pictured being parked up in some secluded country lane with Poppy. She said she loved The Carpenters, and he had bought the Close To You CD at HMV (he had worn dark glasses and a woolly hat in case his mates spotted him). He closed his eyes and imagined the music working its magic with Poppy...BEEP!!He hadn't noticed the lights changing and the car lurched forward.“Mind that clutch!”Jason peered into the driver's mirror and shot upright in his seat, astonished at the sight of an oldish looking man, wearing a navy blue cardigan, white shirt and black tie, sitting behind his left shoulder. He had a full mop of grey hair, a bushy grey beard and sported small, circular National Health glasses perched on a prominent, angular nose. He had weedy, beady, owly eyes which made him look as if he was permanently squinting. There's was also some sort of sign on his forehead.“How the...hey, don't I know you?” said Jason, “yeah you're...bloody hell, it can't be... you're....”Jason was 19 years old and worked as a bottler at Howton's pickling factory, a 100-year-old, family run business, which produced a variety of pickles, sauces and chutneys.A week ago word had spread rapidly around the factory that Norman Smith, the firm's 62 year old chief payroll clerk, had died of a heart attack whilst sharpening his pencil.
“Watch out for the cyclist. You didn't signal then,” said Norman who spoke in a slow and deliberate drawl as if he was contemplating every single syllable.
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Florence Smith paced up and down, waiting for the taxi to arrive, mentally going over her agenda. Tomorrow was her first session at the fitness centre, there was no easy route to making inroads into a 15st package which had taken years and a chronic addition to Jaffa cakes to accumulate. It was going to be painful at first, she knew that, but it would be worth it. Then it was on to the manicurist and hairdresser. But today she had something far more important planned.
Florence thought back to all those years ago when she was just Flo, an 18 year old canteen assistant at Howton's, a lithe, some would say beautiful, young thing but oh so naïve.
When Norman from payroll started chatting her up she was flattered. It seemed
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