“28th” February, 1890 — Pennyworth Streets
Billie Farrow
Billie Farrow
This day seemed to be lasting foreeeeeever. Which would be all well and good if Great-Granny Fletcher hadn’t made him do chores about the house all morning, when instead of dusting (her eyes were so bad she couldn’t see any of the gazillion cobwebs anyway, what was the point?) he could be practising his pick-pocketing to show Hestia or delivering messages at the speed of light!
But no, here he was like a dippy housemaid attacking the house with a feather duster. He had done the stairs already, swishing the thing about more like it was a sword than a cleaning implement, and had just made a start on (wrecking) his bedroom windowsill when he spotted a familiar face - well, mop of hair - outside on the street below.
“OI!” He roared at the top of his lungs, pushing up the sash window and leaning out. “BILLIE! WHAT’CHA DOING?” It was an attempted ambush as much as it was a lively greeting, but Jimmy followed it up - just to be sure to get Farrow’s attention - by sending the feather duster sailing towards Billie’s head.
It wasn’t his fault that time chose that moment to speed up again. Intensely. Not his fault, he swore! The duster was already out of his hands!
But no, here he was like a dippy housemaid attacking the house with a feather duster. He had done the stairs already, swishing the thing about more like it was a sword than a cleaning implement, and had just made a start on (wrecking) his bedroom windowsill when he spotted a familiar face - well, mop of hair - outside on the street below.
“OI!” He roared at the top of his lungs, pushing up the sash window and leaning out. “BILLIE! WHAT’CHA DOING?” It was an attempted ambush as much as it was a lively greeting, but Jimmy followed it up - just to be sure to get Farrow’s attention - by sending the feather duster sailing towards Billie’s head.
It wasn’t his fault that time chose that moment to speed up again. Intensely. Not his fault, he swore! The duster was already out of his hands!