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While browsing at Ron's second-hand bookshop, be careful not to tread on the sleeping tramps

By Jeremy Clarke   April 1999

I have one friend. He’s called Ron. Although, to tell the truth, I don’t believe he actually likes me much either.

Ron lives in the vestry of an architecturally important, semi-derelict church which he bought 20 years ago with his redundancy money. When he first moved there (he’ll go absolutely radio rental if he finds out I’ve written about him), Ron had all sorts of ideas for making money out of the place, but they all fell on stony ground and invariably culminated in a visit from the bailiffs. Several times Ron saw his worldly goods being carried out of…

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