the way he spoke and waved his hands around as if he was some kind of intellectual or something. And when I say talking, I don't mean talking as in having a conversation, I mean talking as in jabbering like a mad thing. University this, university that, writers, books, parties, people, money, gigs…. He had been talking non-stop from the moment he'd slung his rucksack in the boot and got in the car. So, anyway, Dad and I had driven to the mainland and picked up Dominic from the station. Now, Dad normally hates being disturbed when he's writing (which is just about all the time), and he also hates having to go anywhere, but despite the typical sighs and moans - why can't he get a taxi? what's wrong with the bus? - I could tell by the sparkle in his eyes that he was really looking forward to seeing Dominic. Dominic's train was due in at five and he'd asked for a lift back from the station. My older brother, Dominic, had just finished his first year at university in a town 150 km away. We were on our way back from the mainland. But when there's a high tide and the water rises a half a metre or so above the road and nothing can pass until the tide goes out again a few hours later, then you know it's an island. Most of the time you wouldn't know we're on an island because the river mouth between us and the mainland is just a vast stretch of tall grasses and brown mud. It's about four kilometres long and two kilometres wide at its broadest point, and it's joined to the mainland by a causeway called the Stand - a narrow road built across the mouth of the river which separates us from the rest of the country.
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