There is no cheerful clatter of pans, or old Beatles records spinning in the living room. No warm cinnamon smell fills the air – only burnt coffee. For a moment, I'm half expecting Papa to swoop me
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Rob and I were down the pub, drinking Guinness. There was a woman in there with a face like a fox. The whiteness of it, along with the red hair, only strengthened the impression. She shot out
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