![]() He enjoyed this physical closeness to his new words. Firstly, as he always pointed out to his grandmother, it was quicker than switching on the computer, and secondly, this way the words felt as if they were joined to some secret place inside him. This was not the first time Ankido had used his skin as an emergency notebook. ![]() ![]() He then started writing the words down on his forearm. ![]() He gave up his search and grabbed up a pen. Why was it that he could never find his things when he needed them? Where was the notebook he had left on his bedside table last night? Ankido stomped his feet on the floorboards. He couldn't make much sense of them and he was desperate to write them down before they escaped his memory. But there were also others more comforting ones. Only this time, the words had been rather disturbing. As often happened, during the night he had dreamt of new words. ![]() Inside the house, and equally angry, Ankido Gulzar, a twelve-year-old British-Iraqi boy, woke to the dull and grey November morning.įrantically, Ankido looked for a piece of paper but couldn't find one in the mess that was his room. Only the majestic, snow-white turrets of the Gulzar Estate itself seemed unaffected by the storm. Outside, clouds heavy with rain were ready to burst at any moment. The wind grew stronger and the hedges seemed ready to take off. An angry autumn wind blew across the hedges of the Gulzar Estate at number one Lexington Road. ![]()
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