For the first time in our current ward and precinct,
spatch and I did not have to prove our identities before voting tonight. The difference was magical: instead of Kafkaesque obstruction which our papers could only provisionally resolve, we were presented with ballots, which we cast and were out of there in five minutes flat. We had earlier in the evening enjoyed dinner from Guru the Caterer, which only took us seventeen months of walking past on a regular basis to try rather than just inhale like a beggar in a folktale—admittedly for almost half that time I was medically prohibited takeout. I rejoice in a local source of goat curry, especially on nights when the combo includes the option of palak paneer and roti and rice and pickle into the bargain, which is most of a thali without the plate. I had never actually seen bread pakora in a restaurant before and probably would try it. I am still sufficiently new to eating from restaurants again that it feels like a treat each time.
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- 1: And they won't thank you, they don't make awards for that
- 2: But the soft and lovely silvers are now falling on my shoulder
- 3: What does it do when we're asleep?
- 4: Now where did you get that from, John le Carré?
- 5: Put your circuits in the sea
- 6: Sure as the morning light when frigid love and fallen doves take flight
- 7: No one who can stand staying landlocked for longer than a month at most
- 8: And in the end they might even thank me with a garden in my name
- 9: I'd marry her this minute if she only would agree
- 10: And me? Well, I'm just the narrator
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- Style: Classic for Refried Tablet by and
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