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I was in a charity shop today and an attractive young blonde woman kept shooting meaningful glances in my direction. Since I could think of no credible reason why she would do that, I chose to presume it was because she was not wearing a bra and had very little fabric covering the essentials. I only glanced once, you see (and very briefly, honest) but maybe it was enough for her to express the slightest hint of triumphalism in her Gen Z eyes. Maybe boomers are fair game for zoomers now that there’s a prevailing sense that the world doesn’t have much longer to survive in its present form.
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The sad but interesting sight was that of a dead hen pheasant lying on a pavement adjacent to a piece of road which is now open to traffic. ‘Maybe she didn’t know that the road now carries traffic and got hit by a car,’ you might suggest. Well, she was unmarked but definitely dead, so she probably had been hit by a vehicle. But there’s still a mystery. I’ve been shopping in Ashbourne for twenty three years and I’ve never seen a pheasant there before. Towns don’t have pheasants. They have pigeons, sparrows, and a few ducks on the river. Pheasants are birds of the woods and fields because their very existence is largely dependant on serving the recreational needs of country gentlemen and ladies who like to shoot things. Maybe that’s precisely what this little lady was trying to escape, only to get despatched by a speeding Volvo instead. Life can be like that.
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