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TIME BEING I watched the old soldier down the street stop to suck a cigarette and shuffle to the letter-box. Out. Back. It took him half an hour lugging damaged lungs to cross and re-cross the tiny square of lawn, wanting a letter from his son. Even that pale wafer became too heavy. After he'd gone, it was Welshy over the road. Through restless night-shifts, boring days he lurched, booze-reddened, with navy tats on leg-of-ham arms and finally lost a ...