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It’s a sweltering Sunday in late August and Ali Milani, dressed in a navy suit and clutching a wad of flyers, dabs at the beads of sweat gathering on his brow.The 25-year-old walks up the driveway of a redbrick house, on the outermost fringes of west London, and knocks. And waits. And rearranges his collar.No answer. “The problem with a sunny day like this,” he says with a tight smile, “is that everyone is out.”
