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Happy days were here again. Almost. On her way to the shrine of plaudits, she paused. Quizzical thoughts and salty tears of long-lost joy. The sign that had caught her eye, she the one who made daisy chains for death row convicts and homemade chewing gum for the toothless ancients, read, ‘Henceforth and forthwith providing one is wearing sunglasses then naked cartwheeling across the desert’s soft sands will, once again, be permitted’. Excitement overwhelmed her very being for cartwheeling was her forte. That was three days previous. A Friday. Still she hadn’t taken up the option. Frantic, she’d looked everywhere, yet thus far no trace of her sunglasses in cupboards, drawers or even in the Christmas stocking under lock and key up in the spider-net central attic of impossible dreams. Should she go online and order new shades after all the high street had, long since, become a breezy…

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