Stuff and nonsense.
Just stuff, and nonsense.
I'd properly goofed off and thought the singing was in my head. You don't get close harmony on a bus.
There was a message on my answerphone from Jem. Terry was dead. The funeral was on Thursday.
Stevie took his seat upstairs at the front of the bus, and mentally leaned into the conversation behind him A: "So, you design? You're a designer?" B: ¦¦¦¦¦¦.. A: "You design houses? Have you ever designed a restaurant, or a bar?"
Ronnie had got his order wrong. He was having none of that. Mr Iqbal, shaking with bit-back rage, surveyed the smashed glass and pooling booze aftermath of the four-minute blitzkrieg.