Register today to continue reading
I have a phobia about any practical task
“Is he trustworthy?” I ask the old man.
“He’s a good lad, is John,” says the old man, indicating the grinning, hulking figure beside me.
So I hire him. John has been hanging round our south London square and, on a pretext, has seen the inside of my flat, which is famously the most squalid on the whole estate. He has offered to decorate it for a mere ?200, but must have ?100 up front.
I trust the old man, the patriarch of four generations, all of whom live here. In 1935, he was one of the two young…
We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit a letter to email@example.com