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But tell me, why did you choose to leave the quiet contemplative life of gardening to work with the vagabonds and scum of London?" I haven't totally given up gardening," said Roland with a beatific smile as he gestured towards a flower bed just outside the relief centre that was somewhat incongruous on the dust-blown, pot-holed streets of East London. "And anyway, not all the poor wretches who come here for food, shelter and medical attention are either scum or vagabonds." Well, I guess there are some diamonds in the rough," said the woman as a parting comment as she walked back to her plush Indian-manufactured car."They don't make cars like that in England anymore," commented one of the men who regularly took advantage of Roland's centre. He wasn't just old, he was riddled with scars from the recent smallpox epidemic. "We used to make cars in England, you know. A long time ago. Before I was even born that was." Country's gone to the fucking dogs," said an equally old woman who had. On a Sunday morning in early December, with my wife again away on business over the weekend; I was sulking around the house in my bathrobe when Alicia Gladford, the neighbor from the end of the block, rang my doorbell. I opened the door and immediately knew things were about to get even worse. Alicia’s usually serene Oriental/African features were a riot of emotion. The veneer of her sophistication, polished smooth by her role as a corporate wife, was fractured by tears and smeared mascara visible even against her milk chocolate skin. Her long rich black hair was matted to her head. “I have something to show you”, she said in a quivering voice while standing motionless on my doorstep. “Come in,” I said. Alicia surprisingly walked into my arms and burying her face against my shoulder started to cry. Helplessly I held her sobbing against me for a few long moments until she apologized, regained a little composure and asked if I had a DVD player. I showed her into the den, guided her to.
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