‘You’ll need some help, Mum,’ Kate said. ‘Around the house and in the garden. Just until you start feeling better, I mean.’
They were sitting either side of the kitchen table in her mother’s Cornwall home; Radio 4 burbled in the background and the cat slept in front of the Aga. That everything should be so familiar, so as it should be, only underlined what Kate already knew: that life was about to change for the both of them.
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Patricia snapped. ‘I’m not an invalid, Kate. The doctors said I could be walking by the end of the year, didn't they? Didn't you hear them say that?’
Kate pursed her lips. ‘They also said that there weren’t any guarantees,’ she said. ‘And that you weren’t to rush things.’
Her mother rolled her eyes and groaned. ‘Oh, honestly, how am I meant to ‘rush things’ when I’m trapped in this wretched thing?’
She slammed her hands on the sides of the wheelchair.
‘You know what I mean,’ Kate said quietly.
On the few occasions that she returned to her childhood home, Kate found herself still intimidated by her headstrong mother. Even now - frail and unsteady after the accident - she contained the ferocity that Kate had feared in her youth.
On the drive from London earlier in the month, she’d imagined a diluted duplicate of her mother in the hospital, sedated and sentimental after her brush with death.
Instead she was met with a stony expression and the rhetorical question, ‘Why must you always be later than you say?’
Her mother took another biscuit from the tin and broke it neatly in two, passing a piece to Kate.
‘You’re staying longer than I thought,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t term start on Monday?’
‘That’s what I want to talk to you about.’
Patricia frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Kate cleared her throat. ‘I’d like to stay with you,’ she said. ‘Just until you’re feeling better.’
Patricia took a sip of her tea. She’d feared that her daughter would make this proposal and the thought of surrendering her independence, even temporarily, filled her with dread. Until the road accident last month, she’d not once felt her seventy years.
She looked through the French doors beside her and saw the dozens of plump, brown apples on the lawn. She’d been pretending not to notice them; the defeat that they symbolised. She’d always used the surplus fruit that the apple tree bore; there’d not been chance for rot to set in. But things were changing now, she knew that.
‘What about school?’ she asked, careful not to sound too committal.
‘I’ve spoken to them already,’ Kate said.
‘And Brian? What about Brian?’
‘He’s happy for me to stay with you.’
Patricia raised an eyebrow and Kate sighed.
‘He’s not having an affair, Mother. He’ll come down at weekends. If that’s okay with you, of course.’
Patricia sniffed. ‘So long as he doesn’t bring that ridiculous sports car.’
‘Is that a ‘yes’ then?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s nothing permanent, though.’
‘Of course,’ Kate said, standing to clear the table.
As she reached for her mother’s cup, Patricia took her hand in her own.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.
A split second’s silence passed before she let go.
‘Be careful with that cup,’ she said in her usual bossy tone. ‘It’s bone China.’
Monday, 30 November 2009
Sunday, 27 September 2009
Shanghai
Sitting alone in the busy Spring restaurant, Adam stared out of the window onto the rainy streets of Shanghai. He crossed his arms and let out a sigh. Tomorrow he’d be back in London and the life he’d left behind him a year ago. The idea filled him with sorrow and he topped up his glass, finishing his third bottle of Tsingtao. If he was to get through tonight, he would have to be drunk.
When the rushed waitress placed his starter of spring rolls in front of him, he forced a smile. Though he’d been hungry before arriving here, his appetite was now gone, his mood flat. Of the dozen countries and cities that he’d been to in the last twelve months, Shanghai held the most fascination: the perfect blend of tradition and innovation; the wafts of delicious food on the streets; the busyness and anonymity to rival even that of London. And, of course, there was Jenna.
He imagined her in the empty chair across the table in the restaurant. They had come here so often that the table was unofficially reserved for them.
At Jenna’s request, they’d said their goodbyes last night, lying on crisp white bed sheets in her hotel room, spent after love making. Though they’d known each other only three weeks, their connection was immediate; their separation inevitable.
‘Isn’t there any way you can stay longer?’ she’d asked last week as they strolled through People’s Square.
‘I won’t have a job to go back to if I stay,’ he said.
Jenna stopped walking and smiled slyly. ‘And?’
‘And I can’t do that,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s alright for you, you’re freelancing. You can write anywhere. But you know what the job market’s like at the moment. I was lucky to even get a sabbatical. I can’t afford not to be working. You know my situation.’
As the words passed his lips, he knew that it was himself he was trying to convince.
He saw Jenna’s face fall and he hated himself for it. How had he become this man who would sacrifice passion for security? After all, what really was there to go home for? An empty house and the confirmation of divorce? A tedious office job that he’d loathed for a decade? A real man would have a backbone; a real man would do what he wanted and not what was expected.
He put his arm around Jenna’s shoulders and pulled her close.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. And he was, more sorry than he’d ever been about anything.
It was gone eleven o’clock by the time Adam left the restaurant, his step a little unsteady, his speech a little slurred.
The rain had stopped now and he was passing a closing karaoke bar when he heard his name called. He turned to see Jenna standing under the glow of a streetlight. He blinked, sure that he was imagining the scene.
‘Adam,’ she said again. ‘Let me come with you.’
When the rushed waitress placed his starter of spring rolls in front of him, he forced a smile. Though he’d been hungry before arriving here, his appetite was now gone, his mood flat. Of the dozen countries and cities that he’d been to in the last twelve months, Shanghai held the most fascination: the perfect blend of tradition and innovation; the wafts of delicious food on the streets; the busyness and anonymity to rival even that of London. And, of course, there was Jenna.
He imagined her in the empty chair across the table in the restaurant. They had come here so often that the table was unofficially reserved for them.
At Jenna’s request, they’d said their goodbyes last night, lying on crisp white bed sheets in her hotel room, spent after love making. Though they’d known each other only three weeks, their connection was immediate; their separation inevitable.
‘Isn’t there any way you can stay longer?’ she’d asked last week as they strolled through People’s Square.
‘I won’t have a job to go back to if I stay,’ he said.
Jenna stopped walking and smiled slyly. ‘And?’
‘And I can’t do that,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s alright for you, you’re freelancing. You can write anywhere. But you know what the job market’s like at the moment. I was lucky to even get a sabbatical. I can’t afford not to be working. You know my situation.’
As the words passed his lips, he knew that it was himself he was trying to convince.
He saw Jenna’s face fall and he hated himself for it. How had he become this man who would sacrifice passion for security? After all, what really was there to go home for? An empty house and the confirmation of divorce? A tedious office job that he’d loathed for a decade? A real man would have a backbone; a real man would do what he wanted and not what was expected.
He put his arm around Jenna’s shoulders and pulled her close.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. And he was, more sorry than he’d ever been about anything.
It was gone eleven o’clock by the time Adam left the restaurant, his step a little unsteady, his speech a little slurred.
The rain had stopped now and he was passing a closing karaoke bar when he heard his name called. He turned to see Jenna standing under the glow of a streetlight. He blinked, sure that he was imagining the scene.
‘Adam,’ she said again. ‘Let me come with you.’
Thursday, 27 August 2009
The Other Side of the Window
Trish pulled back the blind and peered onto the street. The salesman was at the Gambles’ now, just over the road. Knowing he’d soon be with her, she felt nerves ripple through her body. She knew it was pathetic, but since his last visit she’d been unable to think of anything but his return. There was no denying his good looks, but - and perhaps she was imagining it - there’d also been a kindness in his eyes, something that suggested he’d understand her circumstance.
She stepped away from the window and pulled her straggly blonde hair into a ponytail. It really needed cutting, but Xavier was still on holiday and she enjoyed his home visits for the social – as much as practical - reasons.
‘Girl, you need to get out there again,’ he said last time he'd been over. ‘Sorry to say this, but it ain’t right that you’re stuck in this house all the time.’
Of course she agreed with him, but what she didn't say – because she wasn't sure he’d understand – was that it wasn’t that easy. Since the accident the very thought of stepping outside filled her with a bone aching dread. What had once been as natural as waking was now a challenge she knew she couldn’t face. And God knew she’d tried enough times.
Hearing the knock on the door, she felt herself root to the spot. What if she’d imagined that he’d been flirting with her last time? What if, when she asked him in for a cup of coffee, he made his excuses and left? What if-,
She cut her questioning mind short and made her way to the front door. Life had been strange for too long, she knew that. It was time for some normality.
She stepped away from the window and pulled her straggly blonde hair into a ponytail. It really needed cutting, but Xavier was still on holiday and she enjoyed his home visits for the social – as much as practical - reasons.
‘Girl, you need to get out there again,’ he said last time he'd been over. ‘Sorry to say this, but it ain’t right that you’re stuck in this house all the time.’
Of course she agreed with him, but what she didn't say – because she wasn't sure he’d understand – was that it wasn’t that easy. Since the accident the very thought of stepping outside filled her with a bone aching dread. What had once been as natural as waking was now a challenge she knew she couldn’t face. And God knew she’d tried enough times.
Hearing the knock on the door, she felt herself root to the spot. What if she’d imagined that he’d been flirting with her last time? What if, when she asked him in for a cup of coffee, he made his excuses and left? What if-,
She cut her questioning mind short and made her way to the front door. Life had been strange for too long, she knew that. It was time for some normality.
Thursday, 23 July 2009
Balloon
Hello Michelle,
Thank you so much for your message. You’re quite right, it is my birthday today (though, sadly, not 21 again!) I’d completely forgotten I’d filled in those details on my profile, so your message was quite the nice surprise!
I still can’t believe how supportive everyone on the forum is being, but I suppose we’re all in the same boat, aren’t we?
Anyway, how are you? How was your cousin’s wedding? What did you wear in the end? I know exactly what you mean about choosing an outfit that detracts attention, by the way. I never used to wear skirts before, but these days I practically live in them. I put some jeans on the other day and the legs just looked like deflated balloons. I felt so self-conscious, but then I reminded myself of how lucky I was to have survived. Do you ever have moments like that?
It’s funny (coincidental) that you mentioned your dream. I’ve been having one similar since September. Like you, I dreamt that something was pressing down on my legs. It was so heavy that I couldn’t lift it and no matter how much I screamed, no one heard me. Sometimes I even wake up convinced that I can taste smoke in my mouth. I told my psychiatrist about it and she said that these kinds of dreams are ‘a way for the mind to process and deal with a traumatic event’ and that ‘they’ll pass in time’. Perhaps she’s right, but every morning that I wake from one it’s like I’m reliving that day. As if going through it once wasn’t enough.
In answer to your question, I am getting a little better in the wheelchair (my arms are certainly a lot stronger than they’ve ever been!) I’m still not used to the looks I get from people, though. You’d think people had seen it all in London, but it seems that a woman without legs is still quite the head-turner. It sounds like you’ve been having similar reactions. I suppose it just takes some time to get used to it all, doesn’t it?
Anyway, on a brighter note, what are you doing for New Year’s Eve? Friends have invited me round for dinner, but I’m tempted to stay in with the cat and a good novel in front of the fire. It feels like a long time since I’ve had any normality in my life.
Well, if I don’t hear from you before, I hope that you have a lovely Christmas and see 2002 in with style.
Best,
Tilda
PS - I’ve just re-read what I’ve written. It probably won’t surprise you to know that I’m not as calm and collected as I come across. Like you, there are mornings I wake up and don’t even think I can get out of bed, but I’m taking it a day at a time. I think that’s the only way to get through it, isn’t it?
Thank you so much for your message. You’re quite right, it is my birthday today (though, sadly, not 21 again!) I’d completely forgotten I’d filled in those details on my profile, so your message was quite the nice surprise!
I still can’t believe how supportive everyone on the forum is being, but I suppose we’re all in the same boat, aren’t we?
Anyway, how are you? How was your cousin’s wedding? What did you wear in the end? I know exactly what you mean about choosing an outfit that detracts attention, by the way. I never used to wear skirts before, but these days I practically live in them. I put some jeans on the other day and the legs just looked like deflated balloons. I felt so self-conscious, but then I reminded myself of how lucky I was to have survived. Do you ever have moments like that?
It’s funny (coincidental) that you mentioned your dream. I’ve been having one similar since September. Like you, I dreamt that something was pressing down on my legs. It was so heavy that I couldn’t lift it and no matter how much I screamed, no one heard me. Sometimes I even wake up convinced that I can taste smoke in my mouth. I told my psychiatrist about it and she said that these kinds of dreams are ‘a way for the mind to process and deal with a traumatic event’ and that ‘they’ll pass in time’. Perhaps she’s right, but every morning that I wake from one it’s like I’m reliving that day. As if going through it once wasn’t enough.
In answer to your question, I am getting a little better in the wheelchair (my arms are certainly a lot stronger than they’ve ever been!) I’m still not used to the looks I get from people, though. You’d think people had seen it all in London, but it seems that a woman without legs is still quite the head-turner. It sounds like you’ve been having similar reactions. I suppose it just takes some time to get used to it all, doesn’t it?
Anyway, on a brighter note, what are you doing for New Year’s Eve? Friends have invited me round for dinner, but I’m tempted to stay in with the cat and a good novel in front of the fire. It feels like a long time since I’ve had any normality in my life.
Well, if I don’t hear from you before, I hope that you have a lovely Christmas and see 2002 in with style.
Best,
Tilda
PS - I’ve just re-read what I’ve written. It probably won’t surprise you to know that I’m not as calm and collected as I come across. Like you, there are mornings I wake up and don’t even think I can get out of bed, but I’m taking it a day at a time. I think that’s the only way to get through it, isn’t it?
Saturday, 18 July 2009
Well
With a flick of her thumb, Caroline tossed the coin into the deep well. It tripped, then fell through the metal grid. She waited for the inevitable splash. She waited and waited, but no sound came. A frown creased her brow. How disappointing. Standing on her tip-toes, she rested her hands on the stone and peered into the opening. The damp smell reminded her of the copse back home after the rain, when the leaves on the trees looked like sleek leather and the mud squelched beneath her feet.
Overhead, seagulls circled and squawked in the sunny, cloudless sky; in the distance, an ice cream van jingle-jangled along the Cornish roads. The image of a ‘99’ flashed in Caroline’s mind. How long had it been since her last? Two hours at least. That was respectable. They were on holiday after all.
‘Did you make a wish?’
She turned to see her mother. She had one hand on Lizzie’s wheelchair, the other shielding her eyes from the sun. She was wearing the ‘No 1 Mum’ baseball cap that Caroline gave her for Christmas.
‘I can’t tell you what it was,’ Caroline said, rejoining her mother and sister. ‘Or else it won’t come true.’
Not that it was difficult to guess what she’d wished for since her wishes had been the same for the last ten years.
Caroline looked at Lizzie, a scarf protecting her sister’s bald head from the sun. Her eyes were so sunken that they looked like two spoon scoops in snow, and her usually pallid skin looked even greyer here in the country; here where everything was so fresh and lush.
Caroline took the wheelchair from her mother and the three of them made their way towards the picnic benches on the other side of the cliff top.
‘Why did that well have a grate over the top, Mammy?’ Caroline asked.
Her mother took a moment to answer. ‘I suppose in case someone fell down by accident. Are you girls hungry? I’m starving. I can’t wait for my sandwich. Doesn’t it look nice over there? I hope we can get a table.’
‘How would they fall down by accident?' Lizzie asked. Her voice was so thin that Caroline strained to hear. ‘Someone couldn’t fall down a well by accident.’
Their mother made a show of shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s in case an animal or something fell down. You know, like a cat or a dog. You know what it’s like on the farm. Animals can’t be controlled. It’s probably for some reason like that.’
They reached the picnic area and took one of the benches in the shade, ‘so that Lizzie doesn’t get too hot in the sun.’
‘Will you girls be alright here?’ their mother asked. ‘I’ve to go to the loo. I’ll be back in a minute. Start eating if you like, but make sure to save me some cake!’
Their mother laughed a laugh that sounded forced.
The girls watched their mother make her way towards the wooden block of washrooms.
When she was out of sight, Lizzie said, ‘You know why there’s a grate over the top of the well, don’t you?’
‘No,’ Caroline replied, unwrapping her clingfilmed celery sticks. ‘Why is there a grate over the well?’
Lizzy rolled her eyes. ‘Jesus, Caroline, you’re so silly. You don’t know anything.’ She leant forwards in her wheelchair. ‘It’s to stop people throwing themselves down there. It’s to stop them killing themselves.’
Caroline’s breath caught in her throat. She stopped unwrapping her celery sticks. What did her sister mean?
She had heard of people killing one another, but she’d never imagined that someone would want to kill themselves. Sure, why on earth would they?
‘Do you think Mammy knew that?’ she asked.
‘She did indeed.’
‘So why didn’t she tell me?’
‘Because she doesn’t like to talk about death, does she?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because of me. Because of me being ill.’
This made no sense to Caroline, and the expression she wore must have communicated this to her sister for she said, ‘She thinks the mention of death upsets me.’
‘And does it?’
Lizzie looked away. ‘Not at all.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly.’
Lizzie looked back and Caroline could tell from the tears in her eyes that she was lying. She rested her hand on her sister’s, but said nothing. What was there to say?
Overhead, seagulls circled and squawked in the sunny, cloudless sky; in the distance, an ice cream van jingle-jangled along the Cornish roads. The image of a ‘99’ flashed in Caroline’s mind. How long had it been since her last? Two hours at least. That was respectable. They were on holiday after all.
‘Did you make a wish?’
She turned to see her mother. She had one hand on Lizzie’s wheelchair, the other shielding her eyes from the sun. She was wearing the ‘No 1 Mum’ baseball cap that Caroline gave her for Christmas.
‘I can’t tell you what it was,’ Caroline said, rejoining her mother and sister. ‘Or else it won’t come true.’
Not that it was difficult to guess what she’d wished for since her wishes had been the same for the last ten years.
Caroline looked at Lizzie, a scarf protecting her sister’s bald head from the sun. Her eyes were so sunken that they looked like two spoon scoops in snow, and her usually pallid skin looked even greyer here in the country; here where everything was so fresh and lush.
Caroline took the wheelchair from her mother and the three of them made their way towards the picnic benches on the other side of the cliff top.
‘Why did that well have a grate over the top, Mammy?’ Caroline asked.
Her mother took a moment to answer. ‘I suppose in case someone fell down by accident. Are you girls hungry? I’m starving. I can’t wait for my sandwich. Doesn’t it look nice over there? I hope we can get a table.’
‘How would they fall down by accident?' Lizzie asked. Her voice was so thin that Caroline strained to hear. ‘Someone couldn’t fall down a well by accident.’
Their mother made a show of shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s in case an animal or something fell down. You know, like a cat or a dog. You know what it’s like on the farm. Animals can’t be controlled. It’s probably for some reason like that.’
They reached the picnic area and took one of the benches in the shade, ‘so that Lizzie doesn’t get too hot in the sun.’
‘Will you girls be alright here?’ their mother asked. ‘I’ve to go to the loo. I’ll be back in a minute. Start eating if you like, but make sure to save me some cake!’
Their mother laughed a laugh that sounded forced.
The girls watched their mother make her way towards the wooden block of washrooms.
When she was out of sight, Lizzie said, ‘You know why there’s a grate over the top of the well, don’t you?’
‘No,’ Caroline replied, unwrapping her clingfilmed celery sticks. ‘Why is there a grate over the well?’
Lizzy rolled her eyes. ‘Jesus, Caroline, you’re so silly. You don’t know anything.’ She leant forwards in her wheelchair. ‘It’s to stop people throwing themselves down there. It’s to stop them killing themselves.’
Caroline’s breath caught in her throat. She stopped unwrapping her celery sticks. What did her sister mean?
She had heard of people killing one another, but she’d never imagined that someone would want to kill themselves. Sure, why on earth would they?
‘Do you think Mammy knew that?’ she asked.
‘She did indeed.’
‘So why didn’t she tell me?’
‘Because she doesn’t like to talk about death, does she?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because of me. Because of me being ill.’
This made no sense to Caroline, and the expression she wore must have communicated this to her sister for she said, ‘She thinks the mention of death upsets me.’
‘And does it?’
Lizzie looked away. ‘Not at all.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly.’
Lizzie looked back and Caroline could tell from the tears in her eyes that she was lying. She rested her hand on her sister’s, but said nothing. What was there to say?
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
Models
‘Mum, how did World War Two start?’
Amelia turned from the washing up. ‘I don’t know, sweetheart.’
‘You always say that.’ Harriet let out a sigh and muttered under her breath, ‘Dad would’ve known.’
Amelia looked away. Four months had passed, but still she wasn’t used to Jack being past tense. Her friends had assured her that this was normal, that it’d take time to accept he was gone. But how could they say what was normal? They’d not watched depression consume their husbands; they’d not come home to a final note on the dining room table; they’d not broached suicide with a nine year old who still played with dolls.
Drying her hands on the tea towel, Amelia sat at the kitchen table opposite her daughter whose attention was fixed on a model aircraft. Since finding Jack’s collection of Airfix sets in the loft, Harriet had spent the summer holidays perfecting the art of their creation. Looking at her now, Amelia felt a pang of guilt for not paying her enough attention recently, so wrapped up she’d been in her own loss.
‘What’re you making?’ she asked.
‘A Messerschmitt.’
‘Can I help?’
Harriet fixed her eyes on her as if weighing up her model-making abilities.
‘You could put these on.’ She handed her a sheet of stickers. ‘But I need to finish this bit first.’
Furrowing her brow, Harriet pressed the plastic parts from their mould with trembling hands. Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth just as her father’s once had.
‘Hari,’ Amelia said. ‘I know things have been hard around here recently. I haven’t been a very good mum to you in the last few months. And I’m sorry.’
Harriet looked up quickly. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay,’ Amelia echoed. She glanced at the calendar on the fridge. ‘There’s still two weeks of the summer holiday left. How about we do a bike ride tomorrow?’
Harriet thought for a moment, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. ‘Can we go to the military museum instead? Dad said he’d take me, but-,’
She trailed off and the incomplete sentence hung between them.
‘Of course,’ Amelia said.
‘I think Dad would like that.’
‘I think he would too.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m getting there, sweetheart.’
‘Me too.’
‘Good.’ Amelia forced a smile and swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Now, what do you want me to do with these stickers?’
Amelia turned from the washing up. ‘I don’t know, sweetheart.’
‘You always say that.’ Harriet let out a sigh and muttered under her breath, ‘Dad would’ve known.’
Amelia looked away. Four months had passed, but still she wasn’t used to Jack being past tense. Her friends had assured her that this was normal, that it’d take time to accept he was gone. But how could they say what was normal? They’d not watched depression consume their husbands; they’d not come home to a final note on the dining room table; they’d not broached suicide with a nine year old who still played with dolls.
Drying her hands on the tea towel, Amelia sat at the kitchen table opposite her daughter whose attention was fixed on a model aircraft. Since finding Jack’s collection of Airfix sets in the loft, Harriet had spent the summer holidays perfecting the art of their creation. Looking at her now, Amelia felt a pang of guilt for not paying her enough attention recently, so wrapped up she’d been in her own loss.
‘What’re you making?’ she asked.
‘A Messerschmitt.’
‘Can I help?’
Harriet fixed her eyes on her as if weighing up her model-making abilities.
‘You could put these on.’ She handed her a sheet of stickers. ‘But I need to finish this bit first.’
Furrowing her brow, Harriet pressed the plastic parts from their mould with trembling hands. Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth just as her father’s once had.
‘Hari,’ Amelia said. ‘I know things have been hard around here recently. I haven’t been a very good mum to you in the last few months. And I’m sorry.’
Harriet looked up quickly. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay,’ Amelia echoed. She glanced at the calendar on the fridge. ‘There’s still two weeks of the summer holiday left. How about we do a bike ride tomorrow?’
Harriet thought for a moment, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. ‘Can we go to the military museum instead? Dad said he’d take me, but-,’
She trailed off and the incomplete sentence hung between them.
‘Of course,’ Amelia said.
‘I think Dad would like that.’
‘I think he would too.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m getting there, sweetheart.’
‘Me too.’
‘Good.’ Amelia forced a smile and swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Now, what do you want me to do with these stickers?’
Thursday, 2 July 2009
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