Chaz was bored. Really, really bored. The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the quiet house. Mum wasn’t back from work yet; he was supposed to finish his homework before tea. But he couldn’t concentrate. He kept thinking of the weekend. He’d planned out the extra layers he would wear so he didn’t shiver, and his stomach rumbled at the thought of the pie and strong brown tea Dad would buy at half-time. He was hungry. Mum was late. That wasn’t like her. He stared at the jerky second hand on the clock, willing it to go faster, to speed through the hours until Saturday afternoon. He closed his eyes and imagined the muddy pitch, the brightly coloured strips, the shouts and whistles of the crowd. Looking down at his homework, Chaz realised that the winter night had crept up on him, and he couldn’t actually see what he was writing. Sighing, he got up to switch on the light. The switch was by the window, and as he flicked the yellow bulb into life, he glanced outside. He looked again, unable to believe what his eyes were showing him.
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