Monday, June 27, 2005

Why, do you suppose, would my wood pile suddenly collapse without warning? Can there have been a slightly stronger breeze, or possibly an eaerth tremor, as young Thomas insists there must have been?

Saturday, June 25, 2005

We are, again, a two-car family. Not before time, either- with young French Thomas staying, we were faced with the impossible task of conveying six people to a barbecue tomorrow in a Vauxhall Corsa, our small car.

Clever Chris the joiner, who made our fitted wardrobes and shelves, can make windows from just wood and stuff, and is a dab hand with his disabled grandson, also mends cars as a sideline. When I got home on Wednesday, in a taxi courtesy of the rescue company, he aws in our garage welding his wife's Mini which he's been storing there out of the rain since November.

He suggested letting him do the car, rather than taking it to RipOff Motors in our nearest large village to take a week and at least 500 pounds over. He mended the hydraulic clutch in 24 hours, which is to say that he took off the knackered bit and replaced it with a new bit, and charged us only 160 pounds. After having the dangerously worn front tyres (potential 3000 pounds fine and several points on licence) replaced this afternoon, we are on the road once more in our superannuated charger.

Friday, June 24, 2005

We were woken in the wee small hours of this morning by a small, pink, wailing spectre. It was floating in the air behind the open curtains, its hair straggly and blowing in the wind whipping through the window.

"Wassat?", said the Boff as he came to.

It was Dill. She was standing on our window-sill, whimpering and slamming our windows against the gathering storm, pink nightie flapping in the gale.

Overhead, lightning and thunder had been rumbling around the sky for some time. Now it crashed.

"I don't like storms!", moaned the spectre, as it climbed into bed with us. "I don't want to go to school!", it continued as it snuggled down under the blankets. "I don't want to go in the car in a storm!"

As I went back to sleep, I could hear The Boff explaining about Faraday cages.

This evening at supper, Dill explained all about storms, because her teacher had told them everything she knew during the day. "I knew it was electricity", said Dill. "I just didn't know about the plusses and minuses."

Tin-Pot Theory of the Week 

Number one: You can tell a lot about a person's parenting style from teh way they tend their plants.

Starting from the specific, because one has to start somewhere, and working swiftly outwards to the general without passing through the security checks, here is my first contention: people parent their children, or those of others, the way they tend their plants.

My justification for this: look at my parents' plant-growing styles.

My father:
obsessive: tinkers continually with his plants, will not leave them alone for a moment; always buys young plants: can't be bothered with the fiddly and time-consuming sowing, repotting and disease control that comes with seedlings; waters constantly, resulting in perfect lines of lush vegetation, with ne'er a weakling among them; weeds obsessively, removing bad plants from around his good plants; expects results: not happy with under-sized vegetables or fruits: discards the following year any variety that fails to live up to his expectations; reads up about "his" plants in order to give them the best possible environment in which to produce what he wants; eats or gives away everything he produces (oh, hang on...that's a bit Freudian); takes it very personally if something fails; nukes parasites.

My mother:
Buys packets and packets of seeds, which she scatters randomly and at the wrong time of year, without reading the growing instructions; never waters: considers that the plants should jolly well learn to deal with their surroundings and scoffs at the idea that the whole point of gardening is to defy nature; champions the underplant; prefers to allow weeds to stay if they're pretty, even if her plants die in the mortal scuffle that ensues; uses benign neglect as a rule of the thumb for tending her seedlings; prefers a glorious riot to neat rows; is constantly surprised by flowers appearing that she'd forgotten she'd planted, mainly because she'd planted them in an inappropriate place years ago and forgotten about their very existence; takes credit for the flowers once they've beaten the odds and survived despite the neglect; can't be bothered to grow stuff to eat- would rather have pretty things; takes no responsibilty for anything failing, ever; leaves parasites alone, "as they are part of nature", and she feels she might disturb nature's fragile balance by doing anything about them; also, says she is allergic to most methods of pest control.

My conclusion: if you are a wilderness gardener by inclination, do not have children with someone who likes bonsai trees. You will never agree on how to bring them up. I realise there should be development to my theory, but I did say it was a tin-pot theory, so you'll have to fill the gaps yourselves, since I have 22 reports to write by last Tuesday.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

So when the car hire company failed to bring the car to my place of work at 9:45am as pre-arranged, I decided to ring them and speak most firmly to them.

When I came out of the telephone area in the staff room, armed only with the risible promise of a car by 1pm or an immediate transit van, my colleagues were creeping around, shooting me looks of mixed admiration and fear.

"What?" I said. "What did I do?" But they only scuttled about and looked scared.

Va savoir, as we say en France.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Warning! Sarcasm follows. 

What fun this is! Like an exciting adventure.

I just love jumping into the Purplemobile a little late to leave for work, only to discover that Some Bastard Gremlin has been and broken the clutch in the night, leaving it it the consistency and resistance of blancmange.

I also love asking one's breakdown company to arrange a hire car for one, after on has been delivered late to school by one's (now equally late) husband (not in the sense of being dead, but of being retarded for work (retarded not in the sense of being too stupid to do the job, but in the sense of untimely (Gor Blimey I feel like Lemony Snicket now))).

I just love being told that the hire car will "be there at 5pm", as arranged, and still to be sitting here at dinnertime.

I adore spending hours on hold to Britannia (absolutly awful hold tunes, btw- think "The Sixties Greatest Hits that No-one has Ever Heard Of- For a Very Good Reason") while they chase up the inaptly named Enterprise (or maybe it's just gone off to a different constellation) because my phone battery is very nearly dead and I don't want to risk being out touch with Britannia as the cleaners lock up the builings around me.

Ho-hum. Wanders off, blogging and swearing...

Monday, June 20, 2005

I'm back, and oops, I seem to be jet-lagged. To wit the time of this post. Have many details still to relate from trip, but as am teaching in 7 hours' time but had no kip yet, I should lie supine for while...

At the morrow, my friends.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

We were left wondering, as we drove along the huge valley between San Diego and San Bernardino, quiet how necessary it was to build thousands of new houses in the middle of what is effectively a desert.

Where will their water come from for example? And assuming that water will be made available, why is nobody worried about changing for ever the ecological profile of the valley- it will assuredly stop being a desert for a start.

Furthermore, in an area in which sunshine is a certainty about 350 days of the year, why none of these houses had any solar panels on the roof.

It is a shame that this country has border staff verging on psychotic, because once you actually get in here, it has a lot of beautiful parts. We are at the UCLA Conference Center in the mountains above San Bernardino, at Lake Arrowhead to be precise.

It is supposed to serve as a retreat centre, which means that there is no telly, limited internet access, accommodation is in log cabins (rather pleasant ones -no slumming it here at $100 per head per night), and the food is decidedly less than spartan, designed as it is to fuel intense academic thought.

The Boff spouts incomprehensible science over lunch at people who understand what he is talking about, and sounds very grown-up. I try to catch a little of the meaning, but prefer to seek solace in my translation piece.

It is sunny and dry, the whole site is planted with eucalyptus and pine, and some tropical-sounding bird awakes us at 4:30 am, which to be fair is the time we are waking anyway. We've nearly beaten the jetlag, but not quite.

Sunday, June 12, 2005

Welcome to America 

So there I was, after a longish flight, happily looking forward to entering America, the land of the free, without any kind of hindrance. In fact, I was almost feeling at home again, after ten months away from North America.

Until I got to the passport desk.

My passport bar code revealed me to be dangerous overstayer, a person who was almost certainy living illegally in The Good Ole US of A, and stepping over the Canadian border every 90 days for a around 20 minutes in order to fulfil the visa waiver requirements.

I nearly started to say unwise things right there and then, such as "No offence,dear, but I'd much rather be in Canada than America anyway.", butthe guy was so nice and apologetic that I just expressed surprise. Obviously I had rehearsed my ploy well, because the guy apologised for the delay but had me led to a side area where I sat for around 45 mniutes before a terse immigration official called me over.

"So Ma'am*," said he, "why did you overstay the visa granted to you on August 2nd, 2003, by twenty months?". "I didn't," said I, "as I tried to explain to your colleague, I was living in Canada at the time and merely crossing the border to tour your magnificent country for a few days at a time."

"Ma'am,", says he, "I asked you why you overstayed your visa by twenty months. The computer clearly says -he waved a sheet in my direction- that you entered our border on 2nd August 2003, and did not leave again until October 2004."

At some point in this bizarre exchange, I felt myself tumble in Alice's hole. "But I didn't," I insisted, "there must be some administrative error." The Boff later told me off for saying this, unfairly I thought since it was the truth.

After some more minutes on their reasonalbly comfortable but at what was fast becoming an uncomfortable time to still be awake- 4:30 am for us-, he called be back, asked me the same question, recieved the same answer, and had me deported to a side room for extra-tough cases, where I rubbed uncomfortable shoulders with a New Zealander drugs dealer and a night time gory cop show on the telly, and listened to the immigration guys discussing last night's game.

An hour later, a dumpy young latina with a heavy accent, in border patrol uniform escorted me to a glassed office where she proceeded to take every conceivable detail about axcept a DNA sample.

After a few tense quarters of an hour, during which the onus was most definitely on me to prove my innocence of the crime of which I was clearly guilty as sin, she sent me back to the gold fish bowl, where the telly was nor showing an even more lurid cop show, and pointedly shut the door behind me- clearly she did not want me to escape into mainstream America to contaminate right-thinking people.

Some five minutes later, I could hear her discussing my "case" with her supervisor. I heard him go through my passport, count the entrances and exits and come to the only possible conclusion: that I was telling the truth, and was not a visa overstayer.

Moments later, I was released by the dumpy girl, who fell over herself to apologise for the inconvience and delay. I nodded curtly, pushed through the glass doors and went to find my husband.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

Three days of mostly staying away from the computer- I might be beating the addiction. Three days of work, wood-chopping, riding, Macbeth at Escot, walking and planting. It's this sunshine you see- it makes one want to be outside.
The Boff and I are off to California for a week on Saturday, mainly to see the Purple Bro, who is intent on being a big wheel in LA womenswear, yet leaving just enough time for the Boff to squeeze in his inconvenient but fortuitous conference up in the hills of San Bernardino. Tough job, but someone has to do it...
Anyway, we took delivery of my Ma this evening, who will be officiating as Prison Warder in Chief until we return.
I'm invigilating internal exams at Evil Academy tomorrow, and spending Friday showing my mother some string. All this to say that I may not be back online until a week on Saturday, unless I blog ex California, possibly from my potential new iBook, should I see an unmissable bargain...

Sunday, June 05, 2005

Five minutes 

"What have you got that stuff on your face for?", he demands, grimacing as my sister leans over to kiss him hello.

"It's disgusting and greasy", he continues, nearly whining. "And what the hell have you got on your fingernails?"

"I'm thirty-five years old", counters my sister sharply. "I can wear makeup if I want to. I'm sure people didn't tell you what to do when you were thirty-five."

There is a microscopic hesitation on his part and then: "Oh yes they did! You know nothing!

"Have you been drinking all afternoon?", she asks, her tone quite sweet, but definitely inflammatory. "You're always like this when you're drunk."

I can feel myself visibly shrinking into my seat. I don't think I'm a coward, but there's really no way to win or conclude an exchange like this.

"Like what?", he demands nastily. "Your problem is that you spend far too too much time messing around with your face and hair. And what the fuck are you wearing? You look like a tart."

"Yes, but are you drunk? Are you sure that's just orange juice in your glass?", she continues, relentless.

She eyes me, hoping for back-up or insider information. Oh no, think I, you started this, I am not joining it. I gaze at the garden instead. It is looking beautiful- he spends a lot of time on it.

"Shut up! You are stupid!", he suddenly shouts. "You are just like your mother, a stupid, miserable cow! You will end up just like her!"

"What, abandoned by my husband with five children and no money?", she quips.

"Shut up! You are stupid and you know nothing", he shouts again.

"Keep your hair on" says my sister calmly. "Can't you tell when I'm winding you up?"

A few seconds later, maybe a minute, she takes her leave, climbs into her car and waits down on the street for us to follow her to her friends' house.


I wish I could say that this exchange was atypical, but it is actually completely representative of the family atmosphere whenever our father was about when we were growing up.

The only difference back then was that my mother was usually the "conne de service" as my sister succinctly put it- the "duty fool".

There was also an unseen roster for least favourite child of the moment. There was no favouritism- everyone ended up on it sooner or later, for weeks or months at a time. In my case it was just as I hit adolescence and lasted two years.

The rest of the time, and even now to a fairly large extent, I used debating and logic to outlplay him. He is the reason I ended up good at school- not to please him or my mother, but because I needed to stay one step ahead at all times.

I am torn between admiration at my sister's willingness to wade into pointless argument to save her self-esteem, and wonder at the stupidity of deliberately starting unwinnable skirmishes.

I'd rather let sleeping dogs lie. I am a coward.

Saturday, June 04, 2005

You know how it is when you want to introduce your sister to all your friends, because she's your sister and you love her, but you deep down you wish you didn't want to because you know that she's such a lot prettier and cleverer and funnier than you are and she'll steal all your friends for sure?

But I digress. Very many thanks to the mysterious Guest Blogger who blogsat in here and sent my stats through the roof for a week, and to Pob for publishing a mobile telephonic post down there, and to my personal trainer for these magnificent biceps, and to my mother and father, without whom I would not be here today.

I'm back back, with new eyes (and no, it wasn't a trip to one of those Russian ships, but a metaphor)- the verges have grown even longer, the roads even narrower, the hedgerows even greener, the garden has become a jungle. Boris the snake draught excluder made by Friend Vetty, is dead, assassinated by the murderous and vengeful Goofy the moment our back was turned.

We have at last managed to unpack the car, relieving it of its cargo of wine, spirits, illegally imported plants, chocolate, pains au chocolat, croissants, cheese and newspapers about the referendum results.

I have had an eyeball to eyeball session this morning with Sim's judo trainer, a woman of limited social skills and definite bullying tendencies- she always backs down when gazed at levelly and coolly; I hate to be a bi***h but frankly, she asks for it.

I have arranged to jettison two children on to their friends under the guise of working on a science project, although the plan was to have the other children here, honestly...

I have gone to mow, gone to mow a meadow but been surprised by weather which the supposed expert of a meteorologist husband failed to see in the runes.

It must be nearly time to go lunch at a friend's house.

I think I want to get off this roundabout until I stop feeling sick.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

GUEST POST: more of the same 

Since I've been reborn as a Guest Blogger - coming to a blog near you soon - I've had many emails, text messages, telegrams, letters and personal visits asking for an update on what I've been up to over the last few months.

Not a lot. I spent a painful evening hostessing at the Vertigo Bar (all that champagne, not a drop for me as I was working). Had an 'exclusive' tour around The British Library (btw: they've changed policy, anyone can get a readers pass). I went to Glasgow to see a band. (Very rock and roll). I've found a little piece of heaven near my flat, Nunhead Cemetery. I turned 33 and not cared about it. I made Harriet declare her age out loud and proud in the middle of Berwick Street Market (we share birthday). I frightened myself by managing to save £200 a month from the ol'salary. (I haven't bought any shoes). I'm playing a delicate game of cat & mouse vis a vis the Egg management in order to get a payrise, meanwhile I'm avoiding my union because they want to take my case up and I think they could be less than helpful.

I also went on a conflict management course for women which was definitely less than helpful - the course leader left me wanting to punch someone. However I did take two things away with me. The first was to stop taking everything personally. Everything is not about me. My pen, for example, wasn't moved to piss me off, it was moved by someone else who had a need there and then. Quit taking it personal Elsie.

Secondly, and this is an on-going study, how people react is their own choice. This might seem fairly basic, but is news to me. It doesn't help that I'm quick to react in the first place, but lately I've been putting some of this into action. A neighbour playing his music too loudly is helpfully told about the problem rather than angrily confronted and together we work out a level he can play his music which suits us both. I'm negotiating with a call centre superviser who has sent us the misleading letter and I'm demanding a credit on my account for the distress. "But Madam, you don't sound distressed". "I'm not, but you upset my sister". "How distressed was she?" "Sir, I came home to find a little tear on her cheek". He laughed and gave me a credit on my account 'for that little tear on my sister's cheek'. Mind you, I'm struggling with Orange: "stop denying me the opportunity to be an early-adopter" I cried. "Madam" ("Mam'selle" I hissed back) "if we had any in stock, you would be an early-adopter. As it is you'll have to be fashionably late".

I missed the opening night of Big Brother. Yes, I know. Big shock given my total addiction to all things trash...but I had a call from the Blogger formerly known as Pob who asked, nay insisted that I join him and some friends for some drinks that evening. Imagine my surprise when I found e, Cacoa, sm, Greasive & Barbarella and Pob's collective of lovely ladies lounging in a field by the Eye drinking wine from coffee cups and tucking into the largest bag of nachos known, according to sm, to man.

I've discovered: a new author I enjoy, a new teabag, a new way to get to work, the parks around where I live, Radio 7.

I've recycled: a lot of clothes, but no shoes. I'm organising the plastic recycling at my block of flats.

I've bought: a digital radio and a wardrobe.

I've been helpful: Instead of spending my own money on shoes and clothes, I've helped Ness instead. She's now the proud owner of some very expensive very red very high heel shoes. She's not quite sure why she owns them, but I'm pretty persuasive.

I've dreamt: of owning a little Yorkshire Terrier called Butch. That I ran a garden centre with Elvis (except he forgot to water the plants). That my legs fell off.

I've enjoyed: slipping down a gear.

GUEST POST: failure 

So I failed to return to London today. I've failed to make promised lunch dates, failed to do any of those jobs I'd been promising myself to do, failed to make it to the doctors.

Tomorrow is going to be very busy catchup. That said, I don't mind a busy day. I need a deadline and the buzz of stressiness to achieve anything. The past few days have shown this. I've rarely been dressed before mid-day, preferring to laze around in his dressing gown, listening to Radio 5 and wishing the High Street was a tad closer. And why not? It is my holiday afterall. For years, I've never just taken days off in which to do nothing. Time off was always used, away on holiday, or volunteering or just spending time with someone. This week I've opted to spend my days by myself, with a pile of books and Dallas Seasons 1&2 for company.

It's quite odd. In a normal workday, by the evening I'm all talked out. I get home, I make my tea and I try to ignore my sister's babble. My sister works all day as a Nanny and thus has limited opportunity for conversation and in turn, needs to talk in the evening. But now I'm the one with limited opportunity for conversation during the day and once The Intended is through the door, I'm babbling away in the kitchen, regaling him with tales of my tussles changing the toilet roll on the holder: "twice it fell off! Twice darling, twice! More sauce?"

And suddenly the most mundane things are interesting. A DHL van parked outside the house for 4 minutes! 2 wood pigeons fighting in a tree! The local newspaper shop has had a run on Chunky KitKats! 4 magpies in the backgarden! The milkman spent over 20 minutes in number 42, not that I'm one to gossip. My net curtain twitching skills are improving.

The Intended has become the mighty hunter/gatherer. He returns from his travels proudly bearing his catch. "A pirate copy of Sin City and English strawberries! How marvellous!" His suspicious are roused by the shower and my hair still wet, minty fresh breath, the computer being warm and the dressing gown conspiciously hanging exactly as he left it.

Today I have a cunning plan. I'm going to go into town, buy a cake, return and throw flour all over his kitchen.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

GUEST POST: One off the wrist 

For Billy...

Today's gift born home by The Intended is one of these fandangled wrist bands that everyone is wearing. It bears the words "ninetysix". I made to ping it back in his face, haughtily declaring that I, Elsie Woo-Woo III, was not about to join the hoi-polloi on the streets, wearing a wrist band to announce where my loyalties lie. "Stop" shouted The Intended, shielding his face from the intended ping, "stop! Billy will be jealous of it! I searched the web high and low for a wristband he wouldn't have".

***I realise this isn't actually that interesting, but consider my profilic guestblogging in the same light as an alcoholic who has just fallen off the wagon and is in the bar making up for lost time"***

A wristband? That would make a grown-man jealous? I stirred from my deepening Elsie shaped dent on the sofa, dislodging 4 empty boxes of chocolate and sweeping crumbs onto the mat and admired the band on my arm. "But how will he know we have them...oooh, I know. I can blog it. If I link him, surely he will come".

The end of the story goes that we were driving round to see The Intended's sister et family. As we pulled into their drive, I looked down at my wrist and said "I've got to take this off, I feel too cliched".

GUEST POST: Wouldn't you just know it... 

So e leaves me the keys and a fiver to cover any unexpected expenses and dashes off for the week. The only problem is that she left the keys and the fiver under my old doormat.

Fortunately I was the frame of mind to be checking my doormats. "But Elsie" I hear you cry, "how could a busy executive lady like yourself be bored on a Wednesday! Surely there's documents to be documented, files to be filed, cases to be worked, canapes to be canaped, openings to be opened and launches to be launched?"

Of course, I would throw back my head and tinkle a little laugh. (In reality I would bray like a donkey and spray you with spit, but as we are on-line, indulge my fantasy) and reply that yes, usually on a Wednesday afternoon, there are indeed those very tasks to be taken into hand. But this is no ordinary Wednesday. For I am away from the Egg and away from the City. My Intended has whisked me away to his country estates and insisted that I play the role of his housewife for a few days.

Alas and alack, my few days of housewifery are almost up. It hasn't been a huge success. I have completely failed on any of your typical housewife tasks. I haven't dusted, plumped, hoovered, arranged, tidied, re-arranged, ironed, washed, starched, pegged out, collected, recycled, shopped, gossiped, drank, smoked, shot-up or even ridden a bike. I've read a book, downloaded a lot of music for my iPod, got a suntan and failed to buy a newspaper. The Intended has returned from his place of work each day, bearing gifts, hoping to find a fragrant girlfriend barefoot at the sink, a beer poured and a meal about to be served...but instead has returned to find a deepening Elsie-sized dent on the sofa, biscuit crumbs, discarded empty boxes of chocolate and suspicious lipstick smears on cartons of juice in the fridge.

It was while trying to ignore the smell in the kitchen, that I retreated upstairs and logged on to my old email account, and found the keys to Purple Pen and the fiver.

"Oh", I cried, "curse the very heavens! I could have spent these days crafting witty prose, instigating intelligent heated debate with a timely post on the issues of the day or just delighting with the minutae of my grey matter".

Tomorrow I should return to London. I have to pay a visit to the doctor to discuss my deep-vein thrombosis (admittedly self-diagnosed) and thereafter prepare myself, my sister and my flat for an invasion of family.

The family invasion is being greeted with great hostility on my part. For a start, they have cut short my holiday. Not amused. I am deeply deeply resentful. Over the years I have been moving further and further away from my family. Actually scratch that, I'm not sure it's just been me. When I left my husband, there was no support for me. When I was struggling through a dark period, there was no support for me. Instead those times of my life are passed around like currency between my parents, my siblings. For them now to want to be close is a little bit late. It makes me feel a little bit cynical, this rush to be close now my life is 'straight'.

I'm angry with them. But it's something I need to get over. I live with my sister - a good choice as it's given me a sense of security which I haven't felt for years. My parents helped my sister and I buy our flat, they gave us money towards our deposit. I need to stop feeling this angry and I need to look positively at my relationship with them. In February my Mother passed on some very personal secrets about me to my Father. Then she made the mistake of telling me. A few weeks later I was talked into paying them a visit, to talk about how upset I was. Mother pleaded with me to shout at her if I was angry. I sat at my end of the sofa, piling scatter cushions into a wall between us. "I've spent 33 years shouting and nobody has listened. I'm not going to shout anymore".

I must dash. I can hear the diesel engine of the Intended's juggernaut pulling up outside...quick! How do you delete a history on an iMac?

GUEST POST: Some of you might not know me... 

But I used to be a blogger. I shall flatter myself and insist that I was fairly widely read, in small circles. I don't like to boast but I often had 2 or 3 comments per post.

I shall give you some clues to my identity. I'm neither statuesque nor educated. I work in an egg and I wear my fringe long. I consume myself physically, whilst rejecting myself emotionally. I once was single and would coyly describe myself as 'Rubenesque, without the chest' when asked. Now I'm part of a smug couple and enjoy sitting at a table for two in the window of a restaurant, watching the world go by, making comments on hair, cut of jeans...oh, and shoes. Strangely, for someone so noisy, I'm very intolerant of noise.

I've travelled. This is probably news, as I rarely mention it myself. I had many adventures with a Softly Spoken Caledonian, but I'm unable to discuss that until after the trial.

I don't have on-line adventures anymore. Not unless you count stalking Orange for my 6680 upgrade and stalking Big Brother threads like the BB obsessive I sadly am. I stand on my corner of the internet and recall when all this was text and pictures, comments and links. Now it's clear and white...like my precious bedroom in my precious flat.

Can you tell who it is yet?

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