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Her and the baby

She only has eyes for the bald baby with the horrid piggy face

By Clare Wigfall   January 1998

I remember the first time I saw her. It was Christmas time. I don’t think it had snowed yet, but the night was ever so cold and sharp and it felt like needles when it hit your face. On the way, we pretended to be smoking by breathing out great billows of mist.

I didn’t even notice her at first. There was too much to look at. Everyone was moving and stamping warmth back into their feet; their silhouettes were lit by the shivering light of the candles. It all smelt different; exciting, special. Everyone was brushing past us, three…

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