for debbie

Bookshop, where ink-stained shelves leaned toward forgotten tales, the town crier’s nose twitched. His eyes, half-hidden beneath a brimmed hat, sparkled with mischief. For you see, dear reader, town criers are not mere heralds of news—they harbor secrets and whimsy.

“Ah,” he muttered, rubbing his nose as if coaxing a hidden truth. “A wish, perhaps?”

And lo, from the shadows, emerged James the Genie. His turban glimmered with constellations, and his beard held echoes of ancient winds. “Three wishes,” he intoned, “but choose wisely.”

The town crier straightened his coat, buttons gleaming like polished moons. “I wish,” he declared, “that the scroll were about the London Eye—a wheel that spins time itself—and Ten Downing Street, where whispers shape destinies.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Bold choices, my friend. Very well.”

And with a swirl of starlight, the scroll transformed. Its edges curled like ancient parchment, revealing illustrations of the London Eye—a colossal wheel that carried dreams aloft—and Ten Downing Street, where prime ministers pondered over tea and secrets.

The town crier grinned. “Now, James, my second wish: a quill that writes stories the next morning the town crier read the scroll about 10 downing street and london eye