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COPYRIGHT 2005 The Spectator Ltd. (UK)
As the waiter removes her plate, he says, 'Hoop-la!' Sharon, who always looks these days as if she's on the verge of tears, has got the shakes worse than usual, I notice, as she lights a cigarette. We've had the cold soup and now we're waiting for the mussels and chips.
Frankly, I'm getting a little tired of hearing about the antics of the procession of plasterers, shop fitters, builders, lorry drivers, scrap merchants, and painter and decorators parading through her life. She talks about them without ceasing, as if it's a manifestation of some kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder. The loop is always the same. I get a biography and description of the latest ones, including piercings...
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