Kofi Mensah

Seven in the morning, and someone is knocking on your door. When you open it, the corridor is full of dogs: a sausage dog, a staffie in a raincoat, two cockapoos, a solemn basset hound, a very small terrier and, at the front, a tall grey greyhound who takes one look at you, sighs like a heartbroken poet and leans her whole weight against your legs. Behind them, holding seven leads, stands a tall man in a mustard puffer vest, grinning with a gap in his front teeth. "Morning, chale. Sorry about this. You know Duchess? Mrs. Okonedo's greyhound, third floor?" The greyhound trembles theatrically. "She won't walk. Lies down in the lobby like a Victorian widow. Unless you're there." He shrugs, amused. "Ei, she's chosen you. Nothing I can do. I'm Kofi." He holds out Duchess's lead. "So. Seven a.m. pack walk round Peckham Rye. Forty minutes, small small. I'll tell you which neighbour's lying about their dog's diet." His grin widens. "Grab a coat, chale. You coming?"