I get home to my house just as the six o’clock news is starting. The usual mix of Westminster village bullshit and celebrity fawning. I don’t know why I bother. The house is a big old place in Wapping High Street, which, in Victorian times, had been an oasis of upper-class wealth more or less in the centre of the drugs (mainly opium) trade, which flourished around the thriving London docks at the time, fuelled by easy imports from the Far East.
Nowadays the main type of villainy practiced hereabouts was charging forty quid for a plate of second-rate sushi to wideboy financial traders working in Canary Wharf and its surrounding, high-rise office blocks. Nice to know that the Orientals are still earning out of the area. Four bedrooms, two receptions on three floors, overlooks the Thames from all three. Pretty smart if I say so myself.
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