Jack Vettriano Dressing to Kill

Jack Vettriano Dressing to KillJack Vettriano Dream LoverJack Vettriano Devotion
instrument, on which he himself was no mean performer.
In his experience, guitarists came in three categories. There were the ones he thought of as real musicians, who worked at the Operain the battle of the sexes. They didn't play at all, apart from one or two chords, but they were regular customers. When leaping out of a bedroom window just ahead of an angry husband the one thing a paramour is least concerned about leaving behind is his instrument.
Blert thought he'd seen them all.
Mind you, first thing this morning he'd sold some to some wizards. That was unusual. Some of them had even bought Blert's guitar primer.
The bell rang.
'Yes–’Blert looked at the customer, and made a huge mental effort '‑sir House or for one of the small private orchestras. There were the folk singers, who couldn't play but that was all right because most of them couldn't sing either. Then there were the hemhem ‑ troubadours and other swarthy types who thought a guitar was, like a red rose in the teeth, a box of chocolates and a strategically placed pair of socks, another weapon