I’m strolling with The Squeeze in front of the restaurants and bars that line the edge of Piazza del Campo. Though I say so as shouldn’t, my ‘fro is looking particularly good, the result of that soft Siena water. In front of us steps a nattily dressed older gent wearing a red beret. He holds up a single hand, traffic-cop style. Stop. He puts his right hand into the inside left breast pocket of his jacket, and with a theatrical flourish he produces a shiny steel comb, which he offers me.
We cracked up.
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Nightime in the big city. High heels click clicking, fast, receding down an alleyway. A cat shrieks. A dog yelps in pain. The hair’s in town.
hair there as opposed to hare here
actually Jeremy didn’t write that it is the squeeze who did
And Jeremy has now edited the previous two comments to reflect reality, rather than reflecting The Squeeze’s computer’s memory.