Deborah sits in the basement, in the cages below, waiting for some crum-pum.
She's tightly clad in a starched Ben Sherman, dog-tooth skirt and bottle-green boots.
I kept watch as my elders, waiting, dusted down their crombies. At their turn, they'd grind their No.6 into the floor and nervously descend the stairs, the clickety-clack of their Blakeys sparking in the dark.
Upstairs, watching, I can hear the tinny transistor sound of 'Spirit in the Sky'