The phone rings late one night last week. It’s Erica, sobbing hysterically down the phone in broken English that her new husband, Harry, had been taken into custody and she didn’t know what to do.
Harry and Erica married last month; she’s Polish in her late thirties and he’s Indian in his mid twenties. She swears to me it’s mad, impulsive, passionate love and he just smiles and nods in agreement. They’re hard working, quiet, pleasant and an asset to the house and, quite frankly, anyone who can put up with binge drinking Tom and not moan to me about it, becomes a star tenant.
The story goes that Harry and two friends had been walking down the street that night. On spotting a police car, they pulled their hoodies over their heads and dashed into Ladbrokes. The police watched as the men wandered Continue reading