41 Albion Street, Stratton,
Cirencester,
Gloucs.
GL7 2HT
Nov. / Dec. 2015
Greetings to one and all!
As the Rainy Season (squidge .. squidge .. squelch ..)
blows in with a vengeance, and the lull-before-a-storm October perfection of
mists and mellow fruitfulness gives way to the low-flying foggy murk of endless
grim drip dripping wintriness, do you ever ponder whether it was a wise move
for Homo sapiens to have left Africa?
Whilst us pasty-faced creatures hide under our duvets for the duration,
crawling out only to snuffle, cough and help the bacterial / viral populations
to take over the world, there are others waiting … damp woolly creatures
huddling in the countryside … plotting … ever plotting … to (yes) Take Over The
World! Well … maybe Gloucester … or at
least Aldsworth … “Curses! Damn that
lack of opposable thumb!” … “Um .. (yawn) .. must just nibble a bit more grass
first .. anyone fancy a pint?” Moral : be wary of soggy, disgruntled,
indecisive-looking woolly individuals propping up the bar this Christmas.
Whilst those Cotswold creatures may prevaricate; in
Wales, the revolution has already begun!
For we have (gulp) … seen the signs! Heed this cautionary tale, O best beloveds,
for this is The Case of the Disappearing Farmer. Last weekend, whilst idly staring out of the
bathroom window across the meadow to the forest, squinting through the
mid-morning haze of what was shaping up to be an actual sunny day (in Wales!),
an unnatural white mist unfurled purposefully from out of the forest, swirling
ever closer in a thin stream towards the cottage. ‘How odd!’ mused I. At around the same time, the early-morning
consciousness detected a low rumbling sound coming from the direction of the
field-gate. “Ah, it’s the farmer … ”, we
muttered to each other knowingly, as the vibrations of a quad-bike shook the
cottage’s thin walls as it passed. But
why was he here? Brows knitted in
puzzlement, as the cows had been vacated from the field a few weeks
previously. After a second or two our
eyes returned to our respective windows.
But where was he? In a trice,
there were no vibrations, no sound at all, and no sign of either quad-bike or
farmer! And crucially, there’s no other way out of the field! The strange swirling mist had also
disappeared. A mystery indeed! But never fear, for Joy is on the case
(possibly avec deerstalker, definitely sans meerschaum … cough! …
splutter!). As suspected, it had to be
evil rogue woolly escapees from up on the hill what done it! That unnatural white swirling mist - this had
to have been the smoke from their camp-fire.
And they have the motive (revenge for unmet demands … warm barn … lots
of apples … no more lamb casseroles … cash to supply their gambolling (!) habit
… a need for a quad-bike (???) …well, how else do you take over the
world?). So, now we know, Douglas Adams
was wrong – it was not the white mice in control after all …
From this tale of mystery and odd happenings, O best
beloveds, you may have guessed that we have acquired this little cottage in
Wales, in the middle of a meadow, surrounded by forest ‘… awooooooo!’ What was that? She sensed eyes watching, blood was pounding
through her ears, her temples, her chest … Her pace quickened .. was that a
rustle in the undergrowth? An evil
cackle, perhaps? She calmed herself with
the knowledge that wolves had died out in Britain by the 18th
century. So, maybe an owl then? Wildlife is all its rawness is all around,
and it’s so different from being surrounded by the comfort blanket of urban
existence … and then there’s the quiet … at times, discomfiting. So this is Y Ddôl (Welsh for ‘in the meadow’), a wattle and daub
cottage built about 20 years ago by someone who’d tried to get planning
permission for the ruin on the site, failed, and then built ‘an animal shelter’
for his self-sufficiency small-holding business, which required him to live on
site, but in a caravan. The ‘animal
shelter’ was converted into a home, and eventually retrospectively passed the
planning application. It is entirely
off-grid, which means that we’re constantly aware of how much energy we’re
using … ours as well as solar panel generated!
Chopping wood is a constant at this time of year, as well as planning
what wood to cut for two years down the line.
Back up Plans B and C are necessary in case the technology fails, e.g.,
always have spare gas cylinders for everything, and petrol for the generator -
it’s a long way to Aberystwyth … well … 12 miles … and the track is rough and
being snowed in is a possibility. Apart
from that, it’s great! Annoying, but
uplifting! Being surrounded by forest is
amazing! Seven acres are ours, by the
side of the Rheidol river, and the rest is ‘sort of’ community-owned, actually
by a Trust, which means that anyone can come and saw up any fallen trees with a
chain saw to take home for their own use, which we have done, as it’s so much
easier for us to get to than our own forest!
The ‘garden’ is a bit wild, is slightly less than half an acre, and is
definitely hell-bent on the world domination thing. The briars are busily knitting themselves
into an impenetrable tangled pattern, whilst setting ankle traps for any
mammalian life-form in the vicinity; blow-in mini- (so far) beech trees are
setting up a second line of resistance (resistant to machetes, that is); and
the self-seeded baby oaks marching in from the Trust-owned forest are
successfully competing with the solar panels for whatever passes for
sunlight. We won’t stand a chance (sob!)
… the telephone cable will be snipped by the evil vine … we’ll be trapped in a
time-warp, until … in a hundred years, a handsome prince will come to rescue us
… or maybe … just maybe … the rogue woolly creatures camping in the forest will
ride to the rescue on the quad-bike (yay!).
We bought Y Ddôl in a moment of weakness when both of
us were heavily involved with the European Election Campaign in 2014. We’d seen the place the previous year, but
we’d procrastinated on whether to take the process any further, until the point
where any decision had been taken out of our hands. So a year later, out of the blue came this
e-mail from the estate agent appealing to my inner romantic with the tempting
line ‘You remember that little cottage that you loved so much? ….’ Well, how could I resist? This time, I was taken in by the blue sunny
sky (in Wales? in April?), the bluebells carpeting the woodland, the little
steam train and the constant roaring waterfall on the other side of the valley,
the rushing rapids in the river, the wide open sweep of the meadow and the
trees beyond …. That was it! I had to have it!! Little did we realise then what the evil
vines were plotting … or how the cottage would retaliate for five long months
of neglect …
Living off-grid requires a steep learning curve. One day last February we arrived rather
gung-ho at Y Ddôl, unlocked the door, and …..
(curses!) …. couldn’t get in! Joy
manfully (personfully?) placed her shoulder to the door, and heaved. Nothing.
It was time for the boot. Again
nothing. Then suddenly … bam! .. creeeeeak! .. whoosh! .. Joy and
associated baggage flew through into the hallway. Two seconds later, the all-pervasive cold and
damp had penetrated even unto the long-john layer. The inside temperature registered 6°C! This was coolth the like of which Joy had not
been exposed to since the dawn of central heating .. or Piet’s house in Portugal
(see last year’s missive). However,
never fear folks, for we had our trusty matches to hand … we’d soon have a
roaring fire going in the Rayburn in next to no time. The manual was quickly perused, instructions
were followed and …. (cough! cough! hack! splutter!) … despite slamming all
possible doors, thick blue-black smoke was pouring from more orifices than we
realised was possible in a Rayburn.
“Quick, open a window!” “Oh
****ing hell! Shut that window, it’s
freezing!” The air in the room
increasingly turned blue … at this stage, not entirely the fault of the smuts …
with particulate levels that would fail any emissions test, as, with eyes
tingling, and with tears streaming down our grimy faces, we approached The
Beginner’s Guide to Placating the Rayburn once again. Surely, a whole box of matches and half a
gas-lighter’s worth of fuel, together with a mountain of ex-newsprint and dry
kindling should be sufficient to appease the beast? But no, it was demanding something … other .. (gulp)! What had we missed? The Rayburn glared balefully at us from under
its newly-acquired grimy creosote layer.
We lit the gas heater. It had won
… for now. A miserable cold night
beckoned … even a hot-water bottle was little comfort in a smoke-filled room in
a smut-filled bed, pinned down with as many clothes as we could muster. Remember back in the days of yore how
difficult it was to heave oneself out of bed in the morning? Now just re-imagine this, and shudder, dear
friends … the coffee freezing in your cup … no hot water … and … and .. (wince)….
no
toast!! Never had the heater in the car seemed so inviting, as
we sped off down the road to Cirencester ….. and warmth!
However, as the feet thawed out, the Irving resolve
hardened ... the Rayburn would be subdued.
It was time to call (no, not ghost busters) .. the chimney sweep! Questions.
Questions. What did we not
do? What does a Rayburn desire (..
within reason)? Is it dead? Can we resurrect it? As he worked, it was revealed that, no, the
chimney was not full of birds’ nests, dead birds, witches’ knickers, or even
creosote. Indeed it was as clean as a
whistle. So what was its problem? Ennui?
An existential crisis? A hatred
of non-metallic life-forms? Actually
very simple. The poor thing was
suffering from neglect. Within the main
body of the beast, there was this one vital grill which was so totally clogged
with soot, we couldn’t actually see a single hole within it! Since this had been slowly building up
deposits over some time, it was obvious that the previous occupants also hadn’t
noticed this obscure, but vital little cleaning job! Oh, the embarrassment! But hadn’t we read the manual? Where was the reference to this crucial
little piece of hardware? Eventually, in
some obscure little section, we found the briefest of references (sigh) ...
manual writers, eh?
To say that Y Ddôl is idiosyncratic would be an
understatement. House manuals and useful
e-mail addresses / telephone numbers come as part of the package, since getting
to grips with the technology can be challenging, in more ways than one! Luckily, the solar panels work well ... even
on light grey days (yay!). Just as well,
as at this time of the year, there’s only about four hours of sun (!) before it
sinks below the mountain (click! .. “who turned out the lights?”). Meanwhile, back to feeding the Rayburn and
its compadre .. the rocket stove sofa!
This is a ‘sort of’ off-grid version of central heating, in that it
enables you to think about the possibility of creeping out from under the duvet
in the morning, as opposed to actively avoiding it! After having stoked up the earthen mass for
about six hours in the evening, feeding it long thin (no fatter than your arm)
branches or off-cuts of wood, it will then deign to emit the odd bit of heat
overnight to keep the chill off the place.
This process is obviously more efficient if you keep up the burning
night after night, as then the mass positively glows! Mmmm .... warm bum! Cold hands clamped around the rapidly cooling
coffee mug .... but definitely warm bum!
As spring turned to summer and that Welsh soft
greenness turned to ... more Welsh soft greenness, we realised that we had to
get to grips with (gulp) .... power tools!
Even though there was sunshine (yes, even in Wales), and we had finally
managed to replace the interesting (!) home bodged-together, though currently
non-working, 12-volt pump for the solar hot-water panel with a similar water
pump from a VW car, this was not enough to produce sufficient hot water (at
least, not this summer), so we had to resort to burning the rapidly-diminishing
precious stash of 2-year-old logs left from the previous occupants. We had inherited this petrol-driven chainsaw,
which had been sitting in the shed, semi-forgotten, since we had acquired Y
Ddôl, and that now (gulp) we realised .... it was time ... ! The intrepid Irvings approached the shed ..
the door swung open ... were we expected?
A frisson of anxiety passed between us.
We eyed the beastie nervously. We
eyed each other. Were we ready for
this? Despite having read The Manual of
All Things Chainsaw, nothing had prepared us for the reality of the moment ...
alone with .. The Chainsaw! After much dithering (erm ... rationalising
..) and handling of said item, we decided on a tactical retreat from Chainsaw
Fortress .... but we’d be back (um .. sometime .. possibly ... maybe ..)! We needed a Plan B. Our secret weapon was a cute light-weight
cordless chainsaw .... even Joy could manage one of these! Confidence is everything .. ha! There was no stopping her ... small branches
... bigger branches ... small trees ... where next? Thinks : must finish cutting up this tree ..
curses! .. battery must be running low .. Extra deep thinks: erm .. actually,
it’s not really designed for anything greater than 25-30 cm. diameter ... oh,
bugger ... too late ... back to the Chainsaw Shop for a free sharpening under
guarantee .. so soon (oops!). Hazy
thinks : must curb crazed mania for chainsaws .. (cackle!). Meanwhile, slightly nervous husband chews
fingernail(s) ... and not just because the big beastie awaits!
Back in the real
world, Tamsin suddenly announced in September that she was coming to see us for
a whole fortnight en route from Portugal to ‘a new life in Guadeloupe’. Guadeloupe?
Why Guadeloupe? Apparently, she
really doesn’t want to go through another cold winter in Portugal. You might think that the Algarve is
considerably warmer than this rained-soaked little island, and you’d be right
.. most of the time. However, even if
you have a roof over your head, this often lacks central heating, and so it’s
easy to see how one could feel colder than we do here ... and Tamsin was at
first living in an unheated borrowed van followed by a cramped unheated little
room. After this, I’d want to go
somewhere warmer! Leaving was ... almost
straightforward ... in that she managed to sell most of her (few)
possessions. However, she couldn’t carry
everything, so apparently, she made an arrangement with the next occupant of
her rented rooms that she could stash her trumpet and a harmonica (amongst
other things) in a cupboard, until they could be collected by her Israeli
friend, Yuval, on his way through the following week from visiting his parents
in Israel. When Yuval turned up to
collect everything, then the crazy woman at first denied any knowledge, and
then finally admitted that she’d thrown everything out, as she’d mistaken it
for rubbish! Since this was quite
valuable stuff, the real story is likely to be that she’d sold it. Tamsin also wanted to give some of her (ex)
possessions to another friend, and apparently when her friend turned up at the
little flat, she was given the same story!
So, she arrived with
an almost-three-year-old Manué, who
babbled away using language that we almost managed to understand ... though
translations were often necessary as Portuguese mixed with English mixed with
‘baby’ are hard to decipher. Next time
it’ll be French, but with a Creole twist ... unless she departs for South
America (sigh) ... but more on that story later. Luckily, the weather for late September /
early October was amazingly warm ... I say luckily because Tamsin had given
away most of Manué’s wet-weather / warm clothing in anticipation of the
hoped-for heat which was to come. After
a week of lazy warm days, and walking at the Manué speed of 0.1 m.p.h.(on a
good day), it’s surprising how different becomes the mental map of your
neighbourhood, as you resurrect that mother-and-toddler perspective on those
small details of the street scene that have been semi-buried for a few decades. This usually involves knowing where you are
in relation to ... free food (various fruit and nut trees) .. children with
scooters (latest Manué toy craze) .. barking dogs (scary) .. Man with
Angle-Grinder (fascinating male role model) .. sheep (latest Manué animal
craze) ... ah, a boy after my own heart (sigh) .... oh, and of course ...
play-parks (preferably inhabited by the ever-patient Uncle Rupert!). The enduring legacy of this whirlwind
visitation is that we now know exactly where the best foraging is to be had ...
and have discovered .. The Field of The Crazy Sheep! Up on a windswept Cotswold hill above (!)
Cirencester, with the most glorious view of the old Stratton mill, lives the
sheep addicted to ... salt. In the
corner of the field, menacingly chewing on a blade of grass and eyeing up the
opposition was this mean-looking critter (cue : banjo music .. twang!). Nothing and no-one would get past this feisty
lady. Spitting out the blade of grass,
she got down to business ... the salt lick.
Mmm ... it tasted good. Suddenly
one brave ewe made her move. The feisty
one glared at her .. meanly ... and then rushed in to head-butt. The brave one sneaked in a couple of licks,
but was rebuffed. The other sheep turned
away. The feisty mean one had held on to
the object of her desire ... her salt lick.
No one would take this away from her.
Half an hour of constant licking later, and with her desire for salt
showing no signs of abating, we had visions of this little tiny shrivelled and
wrinkly prune-like creature lying upside down with her feet in the air,
clutching her four stomachs and groaning ‘water! .. water! ..’ (translated from
: ‘baa! .. baa! ..’). Hmm .. mini salted
prune-like sheep in packets anyone?
No more time for musings ... chop!
chop! .. wakey! wakey! .. only five days to go!
Poor Yuval ... he stepped off the ‘plane from Portugal into the waiting
car, which sped off into the night towards every single bloke’s nightmare ...
the meeting with as many relatives as one can muster in as short as possible a
time ... and he wasn’t even Tamsin’s boyfriend!
Luckily he survived ... though us crumbly types nearly crumbled, as we
slogged up and down motorways, cursed, dodged lorries, cursed, were diverted,
became lost, cursed, became found again (halleluja!) ... until finally ...
finally ... z .. zz .. zzzzzz .. the crumblies crumbled into little piles of
crumbs. But wait! Revival was at hand! Legend has it that a few drops of the magic
brown liquid known as .. ‘TEA’ ... will do the trick (drip! drip! .. fizz! ..
glug! glug! .. creak!). So what does
that Popeye know? Spinach? .. pah! zThere is a species of superbly
well-designed indoor play-park, known in Cirencester as ‘MagicLand’, where
Rupert, Jess, Yuval and Tamsin took Manué once the weather had started to
become a bit more gloomy. We hadn’t
realised that it was a franchise until we visited my Mum and took Manué to a
differently-named indoor play-park, and found that it was kitted out in exactly
the same manner. However, there was one
obvious difference ... commercialisation.
Here in the relatively-rich Cotswolds, the café sold good quality food,
with veggie options .. fruit, fruit juices, whole-grain bars, and the sweets
were discretely displayed. Just outside
of Spalding, we were shocked to find how ‘in your face’ was the whole consumer
experience. Not only was it a fruit /
fruit juice desert, but customers weren’t allowed to bring in their own! Everything was meat-based and sweets / Coke
was all that they could conceive of a child wishing to eat / drink! What were you were supposed to do if you
wanted to bring up your child healthily?
Luckily, there was a helpful person on the desk who subversively hid us
out of sight while we ate our own stuff ... vegans? .. vegetarians? ... you mean
you don’t eat meat?? It was such a
different world, and one wonders which came first : the demands for such
low-standard fare from their customers or the lower expectations of the
franchise operators. Why is it assumed
that poorer people don’t care about what they’re eating, or where it comes
from? (Sigh).
So Tamsin, Yuval and Manué departed
for Guadeloupe via Paris, and are trying to find their kind of ‘community’,
which I sincerely hope that they do, otherwise, there’s talk of going to South
America. Now we know that there are
eco-villages in Colombia, but that’s a mighty dangerous place ... and as for
the rest ... well .. travellers beware!
Since they were going to the Caribbean for the heat, it’s ironic that
they ended up WWOOFing on a farm in the mountains, where it was .. shall we say
.. a little chilly at night ... and Yuval had given away all of his
jumpers! Tamsin was determined to travel
lightly and had left most of Manué’s jerseys behind as well! Hmm .. perhaps a little more research? Despite finding the farm in the WWOOF on-line
list of authorised organic farms, it turned out that the farm wasn’t geared up
to cope with WWOOFers until January (due to a family illness), but allowed them
to stay until they could find somewhere to rent. So now they’re ensconced in an ex holiday
cottage, with basic facilities and a garden, which gradually becomes the
jungle, and crucially a short walk to the sea, which means ... warmth!
(actually .. sweatiness .. we’ve lived
in Papua new Guinea ..). Tamsin has just
discovered the down-side to living in tropical islands ... it’s hard to dry
your clothes (which then go mouldy .. yuk!) since the humidity is so high ..
because .. it rains a lot! Another
rain-soaked little island .. only stickier!
One of the up-sides is that there’s a hydro-thermal spring, fed from the
volcano, flowing into a natural pool on the beach, where you can take a bath,
and locals do .. it’s free hot water!
Another bonus, is that Tamsin and Yuval can use their ex neighbours’
washing machine and broad-band (yay!).
The reason being that all services can take so long to connect in
Guadeloupe, that, even though the neighbours moved out just after Tamsin
arrived (no connection!), they keep returning to use the broad-band and washing
machine until such facilities are up and running in their new house! Tamsin seems to have discovered the odd
friend or two for Manué, and has become friends with a musician and instrument
maker, whereupon the two of them have put on ‘a concert’ at a local ‘white’
market, i.e., it didn’t appear to be a market where locals normally go to
shop. So far, so good ... though we’re
steering clear of the topic of South America.
Rupert’s life since graduation
doesn’t seem to have changed much, except that since his girlfriend Jess moved
into a shared house with friends in August, we see even less of him than when
he was a student! Suddenly he has all
the advantages of living with someone without actually living with them! What a perfect life of unchallenged existence! So, how has he impinged upon our lives this
year? Mostly as brightly-coloured
blurs. “Just need a change of clothes ..
byee!”; “O parents ... can I borrow your car .. mine’s a bit dead .. again ..
and we’re playing this gig and I need to move stuff .. yes? ... ta ! ..
byeee!”; “I’m just going to sleep .. got a night-shift in a couple of hours ...
byee!”. Which pretty much sums up
Rupert’s life in a nutshell. He’s also a
pretty cool Uncle ... Manué thinks so, anyway .. And he has now bought a van to
move his band gear to gigs (yay!) .. though it’s not quite legal yet, as it was
imported from S. Ireland (sshhh!).
Bob is still doing his 3-day-(in
theory)a-week job at Oxford Brookes as a (ahem) ‘Research Associate’, otherwise
known as an up-market slave. And just
when we’d both decided to give up on all treasurerships of the SW Green Party
.. guess what? ... he’s now Treasurer for Gloucestershire FoE, (... no! no!
please don’t make me! ...). As for
myself, Joy-to-the-World, I’m still volunteering at the OUMNH, one day a week,
when I’m not trying to organise repairs and insulation for Y Ddôl from afar ... or indeed near at hand (blub! blub!
blub! ... and another wellie-boot sinks without trace in the mire ... erm ..
garden).
And now, O Best Beloveds,
a story will be told which has been unfolding since the year’s beginning ..
yeah .. and probably even a longer time since.
One day, as I was slogging it out to Jane Fonda (only 30 years since her
exercise regime was popular .. I don’t get out much!), I felt a crunch whilst
doing a shoulder stand, felt some pain, and as is normal, went to the osteopath
(osteopath reaction : “are you crazy .. at your age!”), pain went away. After another six months of failing to heed
the osteopath’s advice ... another crunch in exactly the same place .. “..
aarggh! .. can’t breathe! .. ow! ..ow! ..ow!! ..”. Now this
was a bit hard-core, so perhaps a visit to the doctor? The X-ray machine showed a partially
collapsed T5 vertebra, and something ... fuzzy and indeterminate .. (how did
that mini shrivelled salt-addicted sheep get into the X-ray department?). MRI and
bone density scans followed in quick succession; osteoporosis was
diagnosed, and the faces and actions of the MRI staff confirmed that the evil
fuzzy thing was still an evil fuzzy thing ... though not a word was said
(shhh!). At this stage, O Gentle Readers
(end of August), you’d think that some sort of treatment would be imminent ...
at least for the osteoporosis, but no ... the stage was set for a bit of a farcical
muddle, involving my doctor going on
holiday, an obfuscating locum sowing the seeds of confusion with consequent
delays, and assumptions about who knew what .. or not. A whole month later .. finally ... I get to
see a consultant! (yay!) ... who tells
me nothing that I didn’t already know, but who is, crucially, the only
person who can order the next phase of scans.
The next couple of weeks saw me ‘hotter’ than a caesium-filled N. Wales
sheep after the Chernobyl fall-out, as CT scan followed bone scan followed the
imbibing of various ‘interesting’ substances labelled ‘Drink Me’ (or words to
this effect). No shrinking or becoming
bigger ... so not that sort of
mind-altering, then? Zzzapp!!
... (drat .. another brain cell ... ).
A month passed. The bone scan
highlighted a few extra mini evil fuzzy things (boo!). Another month passed. The CT soft-tissue scan showed only the
original evil fuzzy thing (yay! and double yay!). ‘I’m not going to be poisoned’ .. ‘I get to
keep my hair!’ mused I inwardly, though excitedly and somewhat relieved, having
known what the treatment options would be for the previous two months. “Hmm .. that’s good.” was what I actually
uttered (consultant probably thinking : ‘a bit of a cool customer, this one
...’). Now at last, thanks to the
aromatase inhibitor, those cunning little rogue breast cancer cells will be
starved of their daily fix of oestrogen (“Shrivel and die, O evil ones!”) ...
assuming that the evil fuzzy thing, sitting in its command centre at the T5 vertebra
plotting (yes, you’ve guessed) to Take Over The World, is what we think it is. Or
maybe it isn’t ... but that’s another
story yet to be told, O Best Beloveds.
The parental home has now become
just a storage facility and distribution hub for one child ‘en route’ between
one existential crisis and the next, or one for whom an existential crisis
might be a good thing, since he appears to have ‘found himself’ too early ..
life being just one giant comfort blanket.
I wonder ... could it be that adulthood only truly arrives when you
accept responsibility for (i.e., when you have somewhere to stash) all of the
accoutrements of your previous lives?
Hmm ... we could be twiddling our thumbs for a while yet!
So now Christmas is a-coming .. less
than a week to go ... (ah, the tyranny of dates) ... time to wish you all a
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
Lots of love and Best Wishes from
Joy, Bob, Rupert, Tamsin and Manué
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