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errata

cigar-tin story #143, in the shop.

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Google seems unnaturally preoccupied with my security, while I'm not worried about my security at all. Give us your mobile number, they keep asking, with little cartoons of masked men at keyboards (do you really need a mask to do computer crime?). What if I don't have a mobile number? Or what if I do but I've never bothered to learn what it is? I am a bad Google customer: all take, no give.

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Rain today, which is always weird in FEBRUARY. I don't remember these kinds of things growing up in Saskatchewan. All I remember is: snow, cold, and then more snow, and then even more cold. And then spring, and all the farmers complaining that they didn't get enough snow, and how much they hate the government, and wish it would die, and why doesn't the government give them more money?

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C found her daytimer yesterday. It was under the seat in the car. Missing for months. And months full of questions, such as, Are you *sure* you haven't seen my daytimer? I can't find my daytimer... have you seen it anywhere? I can't find it anywhere... you're sure you didn't move it? AND SO ON. Of course, this episode goes into the file with the jacket she hid in a bin, the key she lost in her own mitten (that she was WEARING at the time), and about a jillion dozen watches. Next up is a certain book misplaced at Christmas, which I've heard about in terms of, Are you *sure* you didn't throw it out or put it in the recycling?

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A hot-air balloon on fire over the Valley of the Kings, crashing down in a sugar cane field. Christ.

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