Game of MOANS
‘Rent!’ shrieked Mr Dear.
‘What do you mean, rent?’
‘Whitehall’s one of mine,’ he said, rather more gleefully than is polite or, indeed, diplomatic. After all, I am in charge of his rations. ‘And it’s got a house on it, so that’s £50 rent you owe me.’
‘I didn’t notice you buying Whitehall.’
‘You should pay more attention. Property dealing is a serious business.’
‘Oh wait,’ I said, excitedly. ‘I forgot to collect £200 when I passed “Go”, so I’m still up.’
We live in
