Don’t Cry For Me, O Martini

‘Perhaps,’ I wondered, ‘she was an illusion?’ ‘More likely,’ said Mrs Kentishtowner, ‘she was a portent of our impending doom.’ No, we weren’t discussing a Somerfield sighting of Sam Cam in baseball cap and shades; we were, however, pondering the whereabouts of a mixologist who, having served some delicious libations at Blues Kitchen, gave us …

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