Read by Peter Kenny - Listen to full podcast
I heard an almighty scream and the battle cry, ‘Oh my word!’ That was the first sign we had of our day centre’s impending doom. It was Cockney Doris who was screaming from her soft chair in the lounge, I recognised the sound. I’d been tidying the kitchen, belting out a Donna Summer song for my drag act, when I’d heard all the commotion. I ran to her side, as soon as I’d finished the second chorus.
Doris was, and still is, part Romani on her left-hand side, and has always had the gift for tea-leaf reading. Loose tea is a choking hazard and therefore banned in our day centre, but Cockney Doris still gave good premonition from a cup of Fybogel or any other non-hazardous lukewarm beverage. In the sandy, unstirred lumps of Ovaltine that congregated at the bottom of her beaker, she’d seen a man with a mono-brow and a clipboard closing the day centre down and selling the building.