Mrs Conchita Warren is an unusual name, I thought as I cycled towards Limehouse. Most local women were Doris, Winnie, Ethel (pronounced Eff) or Gertie.
Behold, to morrow about this time I will cause it to rain a very grievous hail, such as hath not been in Egypt since the foundation thereof even until now.
The bus was stuck at the stop as its wheelchair ramp wouldn’t retract after use.
I can remember calling round once and when she answered the door I was greeted by an unmistakable, noxious pong. “I can smell gas!” I said. “Oh, have I left the ring on?” she asked vaguely.
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