Every morning, McDad lathered his face to sticky whiteness with shaving cream, his mouth picked out bright red, before he slid the razor across his face and scraped thick pink tracks through the snow.
At seven, Radio 4 broadcast The Pips
Pip!
Aaaah! sang McDad
Pip!
Aaaaah! sang McDad, an octave lower
Pip!
Aaaaah! he sang a note a third above, with his mouth wide open and a serious expression on his face.
Pip!
Aaaah! he chose a random pitch this time, sung earnestly to the steamy mirror.
Pip!
Aaaaah! he practised his falsetto, fruitily
Pip!
Aaaah! rich baritone, warmed up by now
Pip!
Aaaaaaaaaaah! he emitted a final powerful and dramatic sigh
That's how I knew it was time to get up.
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