Animated Show About A School Boy And Cave Boy#Q=Neflix Show About A School Boy And Cave Boy

Animated Show About A School Boy And Cave Boy#Q=Neflix Show About A School Boy And Cave Boy

  PENGUIN BOOKS

Most A Boy

'It is absolutely unthinkable that you will be able to finish even the

commencement chapter without seeing a little bit of yourself and everyone

you lot know in both Will and his newly "adopted" progeny Marcus'

Irish Independent

'A touching tale that deserves to make every developed express joy out loud'

Mail on Sun

'Hornby's sharp observations and his quirky comedic instincts ensure

that our journey is entertaining, funny – and occasionally affecting'

New York Times

'The portrait of Marcus'south claustrophobic dwelling house life, his troubles at

school and full general bewilderment at the behaviour of adults, is

written with great skill. Indeed with a sympathetic genius that more

self-conscious writers will envy' Daily Postal service

'A logical extension of Hornby'southward territory, combining the humour

and dandy perception of his earlier books with a harsher prepare of

facts; a north London landscape slightly reminiscent of Joseph

Connolly and Martin Amis. The psychology of Hornby'due south

characters is carefully, thoughtfully and gently washed. There

is a heart to Hornby'south writing which sets its world apart from

those of Connolly or Amis' Tobias Colina, Observer

Almost THE Author

Nick Hornby was born in 1957. He is the author of iv novels, High Fidelity, About a Boy, How to be Skilful and a Long Way Down; three Works of non-fiction, Fever Pitch (winner of the William Hill Sports Book of the Year Accolade), 31 Songs (shortlisted for the National Book Critics Circumvolve Award), and The Polysyllabic Spree; and a Pocket Penguin book of curt Stories, Otherwise Pandemonium. He has also edited two anthologies, My Favourite Year and Speaking with the Angel. In 1999 he was awarded the E. Yard. Forster Award by the American Academy of Arts and Messages. In 2002 he won the Due west. H. Smith Award for Fiction, and in 2003 he was honoured with the Writers' Author Award at the Orange Word International Writers Festival. Nick Hornby lives and works in Highbury, North London.

NICK HORNBY

Almost a Male child

PENGUIN BOOKS

PENGUIN BOOKS

Published by the Penguin Grouping

Penguin Books Ltd, fourscore Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Penguin Grouping (U.s.) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, United states

Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

(a partitioning of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

Penguin Republic of ireland, 25 St Stephen'southward Dark-green, Dublin 2, Republic of ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

(a partitioning of Pearson Commonwealth of australia Group Pty Ltd)

Penguin Books Bharat Pvt Ltd, eleven Community Eye,

Panchsheel Park, New Delhi -110 017, India

Penguin Grouping (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

(a partitioning of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: eighty Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

www.penguin.com

Published by Victor Gollancz 1998

Published in Penguin Books 2000

36

Copyright © Nick Hornby, 1998

All rights reserved

The moral correct of the author has been asserted

Except in the Us, this volume is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, past way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in whatsoever form of binding or embrace other than that in which information technology is published and without a similar condition including this condition existence imposed on the subsequent purchaser

ISBN: 978-0-141-92435-9

Dearest and thank you to David Evans,

Adrienne Maguire, Caroline Dawnay,

Virginia Bovell, Abigail Morris,

Wendy Carlton, Harry Ritchie and

Amanda Posey. Music provided by

Wood in Upper Street, London N1.

In retention of Liz Knights

one

'Have yous separate up at present?'

'Are y'all being funny?'

People quite often thought Marcus was being funny when he wasn't. He couldn't sympathize it. Asking his mum whether she'd separate up with Roger was a perfectly sensible question, he thought: they'd had a big row, then they'd gone off into the kitchen to talk quietly, and after a little while they'd come out looking serious, and Roger had come over to him, shaken his hand and wished him luck at his new schoolhouse, and then he'd gone.

'Why would I want to be funny?'

'Well, what does it look similar to you lot?'

'Information technology looks to me similar y'all've dissever up. Just I simply wanted to make certain.'

'Nosotros've split up.'

'So he'south gone?'

'Yes, Marcus, he's gone.'

He didn't call back he'd ever get used to this concern. He had quite liked Roger, and the 3 of them had been out a few times; now, apparently, he'd never encounter him once more. He didn't mind, but information technology was weird if you thought nearly it. He'd in one case shared a toilet with Roger, when they were both busting for a pee after a automobile journey. You'd think that if you'd peed with someone you ought to keep in bear on with them somehow.

'What about his pizza?' They'd just ordered three pizzas when the argument started, and they hadn't arrived yet.

'Nosotros'll share information technology. If we're hungry.'

'They're large, though. And didn't he order one with pepperoni on information technology?' Marcus and his female parent were vegetarians. Roger wasn't.

'We'll throw it away, then,' she said.

'Or nosotros could pick the pepperoni off. I don't think they requite you lot much of it anyhow. Information technology'south more often than not cheese and tomato.'

'Marcus, I'm not really thinking about the pizzas right at present.'

'OK. Lamentable. Why did you dissever up?'

'Oh… this and that. I don't really know how to explain it.'

Marcus wasn't surprised that she couldn't explicate what had happened. He'd heard more or less the whole argument, and he hadn't understood a discussion of it; in that location seemed to exist a piece missing somewhere. When Marcus and his mum argued, you could hear the important bits: too much, too expensive, too belatedly, besides immature, bad for your teeth, the other channel, homework, fruit. But when his mum and her boyfriends argued, you could listen for hours and still miss the point, the thing, the fruit and homework part of information technology. It was like they'd been told to argue and just came out with anything they could retrieve of.

'Did he accept another girlfriend?'

'I don't think so.'

'Have you got another beau?'

She laughed. 'Who would that be? The guy who took the pizza orders? No, Marcus, I oasis't got some other fellow. That'due south non how information technology works. Not when you're a thirty-eight-year-sometime working mother. There's a time trouble. Ha! There's an everything problem. Why? Does it bother you?'

'I dunno.'

And he didn't know. His mum was pitiful, he knew that – she cried a lot now, more than than she did before they moved to London – merely he had no thought whether that was anything to do with boyfriends. He kind of hoped it was, because then it would all go sorted out. She would encounter someone, and he would make her happy. Why not? His mum was pretty, he idea, and squeamish, and funny sometimes, and he reckoned there must be loads of blokes similar Roger around. If it wasn't boyfriends, though, he didn't know what it could exist, apart from something bad.

'Do you heed me havi

ng boyfriends?'

'No. Only Andrew.'

'Well, yes, I know y'all didn't similar Andrew. But mostly? You don't listen the idea of it?'

'No. Course not.'

'Yous've been really good about everything. Because you've had two different sorts of life.'

He understood what she meant. The commencement sort of life had concluded iv years agone, when he was viii and his mum and dad had split up; that was the normal, dull kind, with school and holidays and homework and weekend visits to grandparents. The second sort was messier, and there were more than people and places in it: his mother'south boyfriends and his dad's girlfriends; flats and houses; Cambridge and London. You wouldn't believe that so much could change simply because a relationship concluded, but he wasn't bothered. Sometimes he even thought he preferred the second sort of life to the first sort. More than happened, and that had to exist a good matter.

Apart from Roger, not much had happened in London yet. They'd only been here for a few weeks – they'd moved on the first day of the summer holidays – and and so far it had been pretty boring. He had been to see 2 films with his mum, Domicile Lone 2, which wasn't as skillful as Habitation Alone 1, and Honey, I Blew Up the Kid, which wasn't as good as Dear, I Shrunk the Kids, and his mum had said that modern films were too commercial, and that when she was his historic period… something, he couldn't remember what. And they'd been to accept a expect at his schoolhouse, which was big and horrible, and wandered around their new neighbourhood, which was called Holloway, and had nice bits and ugly bits, and they'd had lots of talks about London, and the changes that were happening to them, and how they were all for the all-time, probably. Just really they were sitting effectually waiting for their London lives to begin.

The pizzas arrived and they ate them straight out of the boxes.

'They're better than the ones nosotros had in Cambridge, aren't they?' Marcus said cheerfully. It wasn't true: it was the same pizza company, but in Cambridge the pizzas hadn't had to travel so far, and so they weren't quite as soggy. It was just that he thought he ought to say something optimistic. 'Shall we spotter TV?'

'If you want.'

He plant the remote command down the back of the sofa and zapped through the channels. He didn't want to watch any of the soaps, because soaps were full of trouble, and he was worried that the trouble in the soaps would remind his mum of the trouble she had in her ain life. And then they watched a nature programme about this sort of fish matter that lived correct down the bottom of caves and couldn't run into anything, a fish that nobody could see the signal of; he didn't think that would remind his mum of anything much.

2

How absurd was Volition Freeman? This cool: he had slept with a woman he didn't know very well in the terminal three months (v points). He had spent more than three hundred pounds on a jacket (5 points). He had spent more than xx pounds on a haircut (five points) (How was information technology possible to spend less than xx pounds on a haircut in 1993?). He endemic more than than five hip-hop albums (five points). He had taken Ecstasy (five points), merely in a order and not merely at home equally a sociological exercise (5 bonus points). He intended to vote Labour at the next general election (five points). He earned more than forty thousand pounds a yr (five points), and he didn't accept to work very hard for it (five points, and he awarded himself an extra five points for non having to work at all for it). He had eaten in a restaurant that served polenta and shaved parmesan (five points). He had never used a flavoured condom (five points), he had sold his Bruce Springsteen albums (five points), and he had both grown a goatee (five points) and shaved information technology off again (five points). The bad news was that he hadn't e'er had sex with someone whose photo had appeared on the mode page of a newspaper or magazine (minus 2), and he did yet recall, if he was honest (and if Volition had anything approaching an ethical conventionalities, it was that lying virtually yourself in questionnaires was utterly wrong), that owning a fast car was likely to impress women (minus ii). Notwithstanding, that gave him… sixty-6! He was, co-ordinate to the questionnaire, sub-aught! He was dry ice! He was Frosty the Snowman! He would die of hypothermia!

Will didn't know how seriously y'all were supposed to have these questionnaire things, just he couldn't beget to remember nigh it; being men's-magazine absurd was equally shut as he had always come up to an accomplishment, and moments like this were to be treasured. Sub-zero! You couldn't get much libation than sub-cipher! He closed the magazine and put it on to a pile of similar magazines that he kept in the bathroom. He didn't save them all, because he bought too many for that, but he wouldn't be throwing this 1 out in a hurry.

Will wondered sometimes – not very often, because historical speculation wasn't something he indulged in very often – how people like him would take survived sixty years ago. ('People like him' was, he knew, something of a specialized group; in fact, there couldn't accept been anyone similar him sixty years ago, because sixty years agone no developed could accept had a father who had made his money in quite the aforementioned style. So when he idea about people like him, he didn't mean people exactly like him, he just meant people who didn't actually exercise anything all day, and didn't want to do annihilation much, either.) Threescore years agone, all the things Will relied on to get him through the twenty-four hour period simply didn't be: there was no daytime Tv, there were no videos, in that location were no glossy magazines and therefore no questionnaires and, though at that place were probably record shops, the kind of music he listened to hadn't even been invented nonetheless. (Right now he was listening to Nirvana and Snoop Doggy Dogg, and y'all couldn't have found too much that sounded like them in 1933.) Which would take left books. Books! He would have had to get a job, nigh definitely, because he would accept gone round the twist otherwise.

Now, though, it was easy. There was almost too much to do. You lot didn't take to have a life of your own any more; you could simply peek over the debate at other people's lives, every bit lived in newspapers and EastEnders and films and exquisitely sad jazz or tough rap songs. The twenty-year-onetime Will would accept been surprised and perhaps disappointed to learn that he would reach the age of xxx-six without finding a life for himself, merely the thirty-six-year-old Will wasn't particularly unhappy well-nigh information technology; there was less clutter this fashion.

Clutter! Will'south friend John'south firm was full of it. John and Christine had 2 children – the second had been built-in the previous week, and Will had been summoned to look at it – and their identify was, Will couldn't assistance thinking, a disgrace. Pieces of brightly coloured plastic were strewn all over the flooring, videotapes lay out of their cases near the Television set ready, the white throw over the sofa looked as if it had been used as a piece of gigantic toilet paper, although Will preferred to think that the stains were chocolate… How could people live like this?

Christine came in holding the new baby while John was in the kitchen making him a cup of tea. 'This is Imogen,' she said.

'Oh,' said Will. 'Right.' What was he supposed to say next? He knew there was something, but he couldn't for the life of him think what it was. 'She's…' No. It had gone. He concentrated his conversational efforts on Christine. 'How are you lot, anyway, Chris?'

'Oh, you know. A bit washed out.'

'Been called-for the candle at both ends?'

'No. But had a babe.'

'Oh. Right.' Everything came dorsum to the sodding baby. 'That would brand yous pretty tired, I guess.' He'd deliberately waited a calendar week so that he wouldn't accept to talk about this sort of thing, but information technology hadn't done him any skilful. They were talking about it anyhow.

John came in with a tray and three mugs of tea.

'Barney's gone to his grandma'southward today,' he said, for no reason at all that Will could see.

'How is Barney?' Barney was two, that was how Barney was, and therefore of no interest to anyone apart from his parents, only, again, for reasons he would never fathom, some comment seemed to be required of him.

'He's fine, cheers,' said John. 'He's a right little devil at the moment, heed you, and he's not as well certain what to brand of Imogen, just… he

's lovely.'

Will had met Barney before, and knew for a fact he wasn't lovely, so he chose to ignore the non sequitur.

'What about you, anyway, Volition?'

'I'm fine, thanks.'

'Whatsoever desire for a family unit of your ain notwithstanding?'

I would rather eat one of Barney's dirty nappies, he thought. 'Not however,' he said.

'You are a worry to us,' said Christine.

'I'1000 OK as I am, thanks.'

'Possibly,' said Christine smugly. These two were kickoff to make him feel physically sick. It was bad plenty that they had children in the showtime place; why did they wish to chemical compound the original fault by encouraging their friends to do the same? For some years now Will had been convinced that it was possible to get through life without having to make yourself unhappy in the way that John and Christine were making themselves unhappy (and he was sure they were unhappy, even if they had accomplished some peculiar, brain-washed state that prevented them from recognizing their own unhappiness). You needed money, sure – the only reason for having children, as far as Volition could see, was so they could wait after you when you were old and useless and skint – just he had money, which meant that he could avoid the ataxia and the toilet-paper throws and the pathetic need to convince friends that they should be equally miserable as you are.

John and Christine used to exist OK, really. When Will had been going out with Jessica, the 4 of them used to become clubbing a couple of times a week. Jessica and Will split up when Jessica wanted to exchange the froth and frivolity for something more solid; Will had missed her, temporarily, but he would accept missed the clubbing more. (He still saw her, sometimes, for a lunchtime pizza, and she would bear witness him pictures of her children, and tell him he was wasting his life, and he didn't know what information technology was like, and he would tell her how lucky he was he didn't know what it was like, and she would tell him he couldn't handle it anyway, and he would tell her he had no intention of finding out one way or the other; and so they would sit in silence and glare at each other.) Now John and Christine had taken the Jessica route to oblivion, he had no use for them whatsoever. He didn't want to meet Imogen, or know how Barney was, and he didn't want to hear almost Christine'due south tiredness, and there wasn't anything else to them any more. He wouldn't exist bothering with them again.

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