There is something about the sound of tongues clicking in disapproval that always makes my blood curdle. It doesn't even matter what they're clicking over: putting the butter knife in the jam, or murdering an entire generation of very small, very pretty, teeny, tiny little babies. (Tsk, tsk. Not funny, Daisy.) I can't help it. At the sound of a "tsk!", or even at the hint that one might be in process of wending its dreary way from tongue and tooth to general broadcast, I find the urge to pick a fight irresistible. Tsk, tsk. It makes me want to break into every green room in the country, shout every filthy word I can think off, and round it off with a long and pornographic
The former home of Enoch Powell
The house in South Eaton Place was the far right politician's home for 30 years up to his death in 1998 and is on the market for £3.65m
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