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On Primrose Hill

In the summer of ’84 I was 18 and my one close schoolfriend – throwing over family, final exams and an offer from Oxford, explaining nothing, saying goodbye to no one – suddenly escaped the dirty pinched seams of the Welsh valleys for the deeper, richer filth of London. Of course when he called my Aberystwyth University digs from a payphone, almost too drunk to read out his address, the endless traffic of the capital roaring like a stadium in the background, I caught the overnight bus out of sleeping Wales and followed after him.

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On the Rocks

God, I hate her.

Uh, that’s no fair; hate’s a strong word. I mean, she loves me, she feeds me, it’s just, I feel...trapped sometimes.

I wish I could get out of here! Every day, every single day it’s the same. The same food, the same views, the same face staring back at me. She’s not bad, she just doesn’t understand me…understand that I need my freedom.

She thinks I’ve forgotten how things used to be…well she underestimates me. I’ll show her! Who am I kiddin’? I don’t have the guts.

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