Monthly Archives: July 2013

109. Sheepish.

I walked through platemaking, but there wan’t a platemaker to be seen. You’d usually find Weasel in his corner, mug of tea in his bony fist, crouched over the Racing Post with a greasy stub of pencil, making notes in … Continue reading

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108. Checkout

…and it started in the supermarket where it was thirty degrees outside and much, much cooler inside, where I saw a woman as tall as myself, perhaps taller, maybe as tall as six feet five, and she must have been … Continue reading

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107. Don’t Let me be Misunderstood.

I found Reg fascinating. Proper old school, white bread sandwiches with grey meat every single day, heavy coat whatever the weather, didn’t queue by the punch-clock but polished his print press with a rag until the final bell, Brylcreemed hair … Continue reading

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