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When my kids were young they'd come into the kitchen to ask what was for dinner. If I replied, "I'm cooking," they'd walk away groaning, "Uhhh, spaghetti bolognese so." For one, I knew they'd eat it and for two, there was little I could do to it that might prove hazardous.
 
I owe a post from earlier, so my daughter came back today from San Fran, which behaved itself impeccably while she was there. Her partner's hurling ventures went well, winning both games he played. She brought me back my new favourite socks which have a picture of a guy holding a book and underneath is written, "Fuck off, I'm reading."
 
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