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Sat 10 Oct 2008Teenage angst
AN e-mail sent through the mists of time pinged into my inbox the other day. It's almost 20 years since I last hung around with A, kissed her country cousin, and pined for her English friends who would come over to Dublin in the school holidays all sallow-skinned and mysterious, reading teenage poetry on the rocks by moonlight.
Well, it was only R who read me his teenage poetry. He was like a poem himself, in fairness. They didn't grow them like that in Dublin back then, dark-haired and dangerous, like a gorgeous accident waiting to happen. As far as I recall, and yes the mists of time could be blurring my vision here, he even had a beauty spot.
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