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Sunday 27 March 1994

More memories of Gran and Gramp's place...

My fingernail pricks the tight green blister of paint on the front door.

I lie in the amber bedroom and count the cars from the Paper Pulp factory as they bruise the summer air at the end of the midnight shift. The Pulp smoke smells like scorched underwear.

Richard and I bury Uncle Allen's collie Speckles deep in the cold beach sand after he has been hit by a car on Marine Terrace.

I count Don McQuitty's empty beer bottles lined up against the brick wall in the fernery. Over three years he averages two bottles a night. Boags bitter ale. Cascade pale ale. Guiness stout. Amber telescopes wink in the gloom.

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