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I've always liked black jellybeans.
In my first Housing Department dream home when I was nineteen I had a flash of genius as I swept the worn linoleum on the kitchen floor with my new straw broom.
"They should make whole bags of black jellybeans!"
I told nobody, but my thought must have travelled down into the collective psyche because someone found it and these days you can buy my idea in specially marked cellophane bags.
Instead of acting on it myself and making a fortune, my mind whirled off into the complexities of dustpan and brush, and then I edged each Rinso-whitened nappy between the rubber rollers of the magical wringer of my ...