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By Leslie Robins
The other day, when I was busy sticking pins into an effigy of Philip Hammond, there was a knock at the front door. I ignored it at first, because it sounded like a double-glazing salesman’s knock, but when it persisted I took a peep through the curtains. Youngish chap, long hair, ear studs, anorak and scruffy jeans. Could be a Jehovah’s Witness, I suppose, although they usually hunt in pairs.
I opened the door.
“Good morning, Sir! Your health and safety –”This didn’t seem to please Jed at all and he set off grim-faced down the garden path. But at the gate he missed his footing on the step, which is only 4.8cm high, and went sprawling in the mud.
Well satisfied, I returned to the house to stick pins into an effigy of Charlie Hargreaves.
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