Do you kno Bletc, you knoy otly like it.

    You knos fester all over ter suburbs. Altle semi-detaco 212 and ours is 191—as mucucco front, ted gate, t  door. tles, t pery some anti-social type ead of green.

    t sticky feeling round my neck  me into a demoralized kind of mood. It’s curious  gets you doo icky neck. It seems to take all t of you, like  myself t morning. It  as if I could stand at a distance and c, red face and my false teetleman. Even if you sa tely—not, per I  t I out or salesman. tically tribe. Grey , a bit t costing fifty s, and no gloves. And I’ve got t’s peculiar to people  moments,  or outing vacuum cleaners, but at ordinary times you’d place me correctly. ‘Five to ten quid a  at the average level of Ellesmere Road.

    I reet pretty muco myself. to catcoves. ime to look about you, and  mood, it’s a t makes you laugo reets in ter suburbs and to t go on ter all,  a prison acorture-ctle five-to-ten- pound-a-ing ail and mare and t of rot talked about t so sorry for t t   in every one of ttle stucco boxes tard   ttom of a  him.

    Of course, trouble o myself, is t  someto lose. to begin ent ter surrounding it, until you get to treet, is part of a  called tate, ty of t Building Society. Building societies are probably t racket of modern times. My o, but it’s an open sable. But ty of ty s your victims times to ate surmounted by an enormous statue to ties. It  of god. Among ot op or and ttom   do ts coming out of t of eetters, and concrete gard