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Calendars

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The smell and taste of cockles at the seaside always takes me to a certain place in a calendar. Calendars are for guidance; experience creates our own. January, was that not the time we discovered schadenfreude? February, all those discussions we had about when and what dustbins needed to be put out. March, I wrote, Elvis prefers rice to pasta. Will he ever understand fusion cooking? The following months brought Summer and created a list of old songs and buying stuff we never needed. October made me giggle. For the life of me I still cannot get to grips with the ingredients in a carbonara sauce. And the days roll on. Months moulding into years, more lists, more stuff. A lost bet, working out the true meaning of left, and sleepless nights worrying where the story ends.

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