~ Follow the life of Terrance Fox in another brilliant and humorous novel by Richard Johnston ~

Shafts of sunlight had little difficulty in penetrating the well worn curtains that were hung hammock style at the one small window to the grubby top floor room of the run down town house. This was the bedsit home of one Terrance Fox a happy go lucky bachelor of unemployed status. He was never the tidiest of tenants as could be judged by the debris of fast food leftovers that were strewn about the room. Ornaments upon a chest of drawers consisted of various brands of empty beer cans, whilst a half eaten Chinese meal was providing a happy playground for several flies. A half a cup of cold tea in Fox's only cup was beginning to grow a fine ring of blue fur that only occurs with the passing of unattended time. Next to the chest of drawers stood a single bed that looked as if it had seen regular service in some ancient hospital or asylum several monarchs ago. The disarranged pile on top of it could only be described as a heap of rags. They were in fact the sparse bed coverings that stood between Fox and hypothermia. The sound of breaking wind emanated from the pile followed by a rasping cough and sluggish movement. As the covers were pushed down spiky red dishevelled hair appeared followed by sleep filled eyes and a stubble encrusted face that winced at the morning light. Next to appear was an arm with a very shaky hand that reached out for a chair that was situated on the other side of the bed. This four legged rickety woodworm enriched piece of antiquity had the dubious honour of doubling as Fox's wardrobe. A shirt hung limply on the back, its shoulders as rounded as the frame it encompassed. A pair of creased trousers were folded haphazardly upon the seat. Shoes in need of a good polish were placed beneath, inside of each was a rolled up sock. Fox eventually sat on the side of his pit of a bed with his shoulders slumped and his head hung low. Without looking he reached out for his trousers and as if it were some great chore pulled them over his cold spindly legs. Next he sniffed his socks in turn and although their odour failed to resemble the freshness of the television adverts, he rolled them onto grateful cold feet. Clumsily he made his way across the slippery linoleum to the sink and squinted into the soap spattered mirror that hung crookedly above it.

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Some scenes in this book are unsuitable for younger audiences

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