Crackof dawn in Croydon, a wino was rooting around in a Dumpster, the smell didn’t bother him, he out-odoured it easily.
He was reaching for what looked like a box of Kentucky Fried Chicken. He sure liked the Colonel’s recipe, and fried? Accessorised his brain.
A hand shot up, a voice going:
‘What’s a girl gotta do to get a drink round here?’