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A lamp’s tale

Light is important.

There’s too much darkness around here. I mean, nearly all the universe is made up of something called dark matter, or so we’re told by people who’ve never seen any of it. I regularly tell my bookmaker my account is made up of hundreds of pounds of theoretical winnings I should be allowed to withdraw, and publicans that they forgot to pour the top half of the pint, but it’s not that easy to get away with making the pretend real when you’re not a ‘scientist’.

For years we’ve had this tall lamp in the bedroom. In recent times it’s had the skeletal remains of a small blue table lamp sitting on top of it to lessen the brightness, and provide a meaningful threat of being brained by a small blue table lamp any time you moved an inch at night or the bloody cat comes in on the menace. I don’t know where the lamp came from and that’s not important; what’s important is it gave out light. Then one day it didn’t, as the trusty ping of a knackered bulb proclaimed.

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The back page of bugger all

It’s my birthday.

All right, it’s not, calm down. Sorry, I know that sent you scrabbling about the back of the cupboard for an uproarious card to go with the gift you obviously picked out weeks ago when you saw it and thought of me, though I’m not sure how you think you’re going to be able to post a full pint glass.

But for when it is my birthday, please, please don’t send me anything in the mail, because it would never be seen again.

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