On another corner, stands an old style tenement building, whose dirty grey facade bears as much witness to the volume of exhaust fumes from millions of passing cars as it does to the age of the dwelling.

‘I wolde hit were so,’ seyde the Kynge, ‘but I may nat stonde, my hede worchys so—’

Eventually, Randy moved through the shock and began to see that anger was eating him alive and poisoning his life.

She had put the wind up them, called them “un-Australian”, and took to them with her parasol and they shot through like a Bondi tram, one of the men with a gash on his neck that he won′t quickly forget.