London Belongs to Me (Penguin Modern Classics)
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With brilliant t deadpan humour London Belongs to Me portrays a world of seances, shabby gentility, smoky pubs and ordinary lives in an extraordinary city.
One card reduced me to floods of tears; my parents had signed it from all the characters of this book. He flits effortlessly from Connie, the aged desperately poor ex-actress, to Percy Boon, the young motor mechanic on the make, whose Dreadful Crime forms the main arc of the novel. I am a born and bred Londoner and love no other place in the world in quite the same way I love this city. Life goes on: Mr Josser retires from his city office and wants to remove to the country; Doris Josser, the daughter of the house, leaves home to live with her posh (well, posher) friend Doreen; Connie’s Mayfair night club is raided (fourteen days without option); pursued by the threadbare Squales, the landlady Mrs Vizzard consoles herself with the thought that ‘it wasn’t as though he were a failure .Facing her own destitution, Connie could be forgiven for her fits of tears and melancholy as she lies in her lonely bed, but she always manages to find a reason to carry on, especially when it involves sticking her nose in where it’s not wanted. This Penguin Modern Classics edition includes an introduction by Ed Glinert, author of The London Compendium. You can unsubscribe from our list at any point by changing your preferences, or contacting us directly.
Even when inside on a murder charge, Percy is still dreaming of pulling off the big job that will allow him ‘one day (to) have my own racing team - Boon Specials’. I now believe this item is out of print and may not be reprinted, so its unlikely this seller has any of tese books to sell, even though it is still listed as being available.As for the other residents, Collins skilfully ties up the myriad loose ends and apportions an entirely appropriate fate to each one. Sheltered and contented amongst the shelves of silent ledgers (‘E to Egg-’) at Creek Lane EC2; it is if he’d never been away. They used to turn up on doorsteps behind a pile of suitcases with a trailing child (my future husband), seeking shelter with various friends and relatives. He then moved into television and, as Controller of the BBC, oversaw the transmission of the 1948 Olympic Games. Percy, with knuckledusters and his cosh, is incapable of making it as the smallest of small time criminals; he can’t even touch up a stolen car in a back street lockup without leaving a trail of incontrovertible and incriminating evidence behind him like a treasure hunt.