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‘Wandering around a music festival, a fella pointed a camera at me. ‘You wrote that book, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘I did!’ I said, thrilled, ‘did you like it?’ ‘I’m not sure,’ he said.’
‘On the seventh of July 2005, just after 9 a.m., do not catch that westbound Piccadilly Line tube into central London. Turn back. As I did. ‘
‘Since earliest childhood, when words first began to form riotous assemblies in my prissy and precocious little bonce, I have been composing for an ideal reader: you.’
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