It seemed to me that my good friend Thomas, while working in the stultifying fluorescent light of our client boardrooms, was slowly becoming some species of shaggy radical. Which was fine, I supposed, but for me he was near impossible to follow. For me a landlord was like a shopkeeper. They sold something people wanted. And as much as Amy was a demon out of hell, even my parents rented out a modest flat my mother had inherited in the city close to them, and this, given my father’s unemployment, was their primary income source. They had done this because the money helped, because the
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