There also appeared a number of girls’ faces, gazing through armpits and around angles of knees. “That’s kinky,” said one of the girls.
“Are you from London?” another wanted to know: “Is that a London thing you’re doing?” Hair spray hung like fog, glass twinkled all over the floor.
Cancer, finances, the war, and children addressed with a juicy, raspy wheeze. Without the accompanying lisp, it would be scary. With the whole package, I have to keep my head raised and eyes open looking at a slight sixty year old man with a white combover and a bolo tie so that I don’t slip into a mental picture of the leader of the Ferengie asking for blessings on someone’s kidney stone.