Last cuppa

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Wisps of faces pass in the shimmering heat of the August sun, as you flicker through the pages of the daily. From the cover of the cafe parasol, you see: khaki shorts with baggage in tow, map flapping behind like a bedraggled tail; long legs, biros holding hair buns tight; hopalong school bags, clasped hands swinging like a metronome; and everyone rushing about like their lives depended on it, weaving around each other, moments from a collision that never happens.

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Bad Company

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After the primal scream brainstorming sessions, Miriam thought it couldn’t get any worse. Tables were up-ended, chairs strewn around the room. Her colleagues were like walking wounded, some with mascara running, lipstick smeared, others with their hair in wild bouffants, most were in various stages of undress. And there sat Mr. Stephens in the centre of it all, on his swivel chair, observing them, a grey clipboard on his lap, suit pristine, nose wrinkled, an evil gleam in his eye, still as a cobra about to strike.

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