John was a young bachelor who for several years occupied my Doll’s Flat. One Christmas his mother sent him a plum pudding from England. It travelled in a white stone-ware basin, a perfect monster of a pudding. “Look at the thing!” John twirled it by its stained tie-down cloth. “Cost her six shillings for postage! Me out of work, needing underwear, socks! And wanting books, books, lots of books. Take the thing–three months solid…
I hate pianos, tenants’ pianos. They can make a landlady suffer so hideously. Lumbering tanks awaiting the touch (often unskilled) that will make them spill horrible noise, spitting it through their black and white teeth. First the dreadful bump, bump of arrival, cruel gasps of men with backs bent–bruised and nicked woodwork–screech of rollered push-boards. Radios were a new invention then but it seemed every transient lugged around an old tin kettle of a…
Once I turned a zinc pail down over the head of a widow tenant. She was on the top step of my back stair; I was on the landing above. She would neither pay nor go. The law had told me I must retain certain of her possessions until she did one thing or the other. She had given me notice; another tenant was waiting for the flat, but go the widow would not.