How do you explain to someone you haven’t seen for 44 years the depth of the footprint they left on your life? Especially when you only have 15 seconds in which to do it and they haven’t the faintest idea who you are!
This happened to me last week - but first let me take you back to 1965. . .
The place is Marbella, a sleepy fishing village on the southern coast of Spain. An 18-year old English girl is taking an extended vacation from her boring job, capricious friends and controlling parents.
She escaped to Spain because when she was nine, on holiday in Alicante, the girl had an epiphany: she was taken to see her first bullfight. Mesmerized by the passion, drama and raw courage of a man prepared to place himself - unprotected save for a piece of cloth - in front of a wild and raging bull, she became fascinated by the savage beauty of this ancient art.
Over the next few years, the girl researched the culture, studied the language and learned to dance flamenco. She longed to spend more time in her beloved Spain, her greatest wish being to see more bullfights.
Her grandmother muttered: Be careful what you wish for . . .
The girl enjoyed her first few weeks away, but money became tight so she began to look around for something to do. Sitting at a sidewalk café one afternoon, she got talking to an American - a journalist. He’d been commissioned to write the life story of the world’s most famous bullfighter, Manuel Benítez El Cordobés! He needed assistant and interpreter! The girl could not believe her luck! They set off next morning for Córdoba.
I was that girl and over the next few months, I travelled the length and breadth of the Iberian Peninsula as part of the matador’s entourage. Manolo, as he was known, was the craziest, most charismatic person on the planet. He’d begun life as a feral, gypsy orphan and had risen, through sheer bravery and determination to global stardom – the quintessential ‘rags to riches’ story.
The title of the book “. . . or I’ll Dress You in Mourning” was taken from what Manolo said to his sister on the morning of his first fight.
“Tonight, Angelita,” he told the fretting woman as he left the hovel where they lived, “I will buy you a house or I’ll dress you in mourning. . . ”
Angelita got her house and then some.
Although initially banned in Spain due to its references to the Civil War and supposed disrespect for the dictator, Franco, it went on to become an international best seller.
The problem with Manolo was you couldn’t just take him or leave him – you had to get involved. Women threw themselves at him wherever we went. Young, old, married, single - he was The One they all wanted to know.
Even nuns in convents campaigned to have TVs installed so they could watch their hero fight, twitching no doubt later in the privacy of their cells in places man had never been. He was James Dean, Elvis, John Lennon and Mick Jagger all rolled into one. Except he had an added twist: he faced death every afternoon.
Although I found him magnetically attractive, I tried to keep my feelings hidden. I was, after all, working - doing a serious research job. He wasn’t an easy man to resist, but resist him I did. . .
Over time, we became rather attached. He was relaxed and comfortable in my company – unlike the others, I wasn’t after him for what I could get.
On rest days, we’d spend lazy afternoons at his ranch, hanging out with his friends and family, sharing al fresco lunches and flamenco-fuelled dinners or buzzing around Andalucía in his Piper Aztec plane.
On fight days, we’d travel across country in his chauffeur-driven limo, him asleep with his head in my lap, me tenderly stroking his forehead, my heart melting with love as I kept vigil on the long roads through the night.
The international press soon picked up our story. They called him ‘the English girl Wendy’s personal Peter Pan’ and wrote that ‘El Cordobés had a British fiancée and was learning the language of Shakespeare’! In truth, his parish priest travelled alongside us teaching him to read and write. A scholar of the Bard he was not!
One afternoon, in the middle of his hectic season, he dedicated the life of his noble bull to me - a high accolade and display of affection of a very public nature. The animal, however, did not share this affection and tossed him mercilessly until his pants were ripped to shreds, his buttocks exposed for all to see.
He raked his fingers through his floppy hair and changed hurriedly into a pair of jeans. Then he went back on the sand and showed that toro who was boss. He displayed such valour and artistry that he was awarded the trophy of an ear.
To further compliment his dedication to me, he lobbed the severed appendage straight into my outstretched hands. As I caught it in a clap, warm blood splattered all over my dress. Boy! Was I proud of that! I never washed it off and later, if anyone asked me where the stains came from, I bloody well told them!
That night, persuasion overcame propriety and I allowed him the sword thrust he had so often sought. . .
In October, the Spanish bullfight season terminated and the toreros prepared to fly south for the winter, to Mexico and Latin America. I was invited to accompany them but my father wouldn’t let me. And so the dream ended and I went sadly home. I packed up my photographs, press cuttings, cine films, diaries, letters and bull’s ear and stored them away in my memory bank.
Over the next four decades, I revisited those memories many, many times. I also got married and divorced twice, had two daughters and now have four grandchildren. Manolo also married and is the father of five children.
I continued to visit Spain two or three times a year, but I never saw him again. I became an antique dealer and then a writer. Last year I wrote my first novel, Blood On The Sand, based on our story or at least the beginning of it. . .
And then I heard he was to receive a Lifetime Achievement Award to be presented to him in Marbella. A grand occasion was planned: a midnight bullfight by candle light with flamenco music instead of a brass band showcasing three of Spain’s top matadors. I didn’t hesitate. I booked my flight . . .
I arrived at the bullring with my sister well ahead of time, flustered and nervous. I was no longer 19 yet I still felt it inside! A limo drew up. I could see him through the window. Without hesitation, I pounced like a panther and explained - in the 15 seconds I had available before the press descended - exactly who I was.
He smiled broadly and took my hands in his. He looked confused, bemused, amused.
“You’re still so pretty!” he enthused kissing me warmly on both cheeks. At 63, I could have been a wizened old crone. . .
I showed him some of our old photos. He beamed and put his arm around me. My sister took a picture. My heart soared. I was right back in 1965. Maybe I should have defied my father and gone away with him after all. Who knows how my life may have turned out?
After the bullfight and award ceremony, I managed to snatch another few moments just as he was leaving.
“We have so much to talk about!” I told him. “Talk to me! Talk!” he managed before another microphone and TV camera were shoved in his face.
He did his interview then the chauffeur floored the pedal and off they sped - out of my life for a second time.
I’m sure I’ll see him again, though. I’ll make damn certain of it. And it won’t be another 44 years this time!
Saturday, 8 August 2009
Friday, 24 July 2009
HEY BABY!
I’m afraid the Lesbian Love Slut affair had to be postponed due to inclement weather and another event which unsurprisingly took precedence. LLS will be rescheduled and reported on in due course but for now here’s what happened this week written live and direct from my dining-room table:
"I’m writing this with shaking hands in between devouring a large bar of Green ‘n Black Cherry Chocolate and waiting for the phone to ring.
It’s been a rather surreal day which began at 8 in the morning when my elder daughter called to tell me that she had, at last, gone into labour. The baby was only a day overdue but it’s been a long nine months and as it’s her third, we all expected the birth to happen quickly.
It is now 9.15 in the evening and I’m still waiting for news. She’s texted me intermittently throughout the day with details of epidurals being administered and waters being broken, but she requested that our large extended family do not descend on the hospital until she’s all done and dusted and her other children have had the first sighting of their little sibling.
I live the closest to the hospital and it’s been very frustrating. All I want to do is get in the car and go down there, either to keep her and her husband company or at least pace up down expectantly outside the delivery room. But they like their privacy and I must respect that.
My two older granddaughters, Tatiana and Normandie, are with their other grandmother and my grandson, Noah, is with his mum also awaiting news.
We don’t as yet know what the sex of the new baby will be. They’d quite like a boy for a change but as long as it has ten fingers and toes and is healthy inside and out, it doesn’t really matter.
9.40 p.m. A call comes through to say 'It Won’t Be Long Now!' Enough of this procrastinating, I think, so I leap in the car, arrive at the hospital in record time and burst in through the double doors. I’m sent straight up to the fourth floor and there is my daughter, halfway between birth and afterbirth, looking calm, serene and very happy.
In a crib by her side is a tiny head covered in a dark mop of black hair.
‘You have another granddaughter!’ she says with no trace of disappointment, just joy and relief that the little mite has arrived safely.
Weighing in at 4.04 kgs or 8lbs. 9 ozs. in old money, the baby is to be called Xenia Minnie! My mother was called Zena, another grandmother was Minnie. Mouse may become her nickname but not from me!
So no toyboy stories this week I’m afraid, though I do have a tea date with one tomorrow. I’ve been washing, shopping, cooking, cleaning and generally performing my maternal duties like the good girl I sometimes am...
Some r ‘n r would be most welcome, but it’ll have to wait till next week...
"I’m writing this with shaking hands in between devouring a large bar of Green ‘n Black Cherry Chocolate and waiting for the phone to ring.
It’s been a rather surreal day which began at 8 in the morning when my elder daughter called to tell me that she had, at last, gone into labour. The baby was only a day overdue but it’s been a long nine months and as it’s her third, we all expected the birth to happen quickly.
It is now 9.15 in the evening and I’m still waiting for news. She’s texted me intermittently throughout the day with details of epidurals being administered and waters being broken, but she requested that our large extended family do not descend on the hospital until she’s all done and dusted and her other children have had the first sighting of their little sibling.
I live the closest to the hospital and it’s been very frustrating. All I want to do is get in the car and go down there, either to keep her and her husband company or at least pace up down expectantly outside the delivery room. But they like their privacy and I must respect that.
My two older granddaughters, Tatiana and Normandie, are with their other grandmother and my grandson, Noah, is with his mum also awaiting news.
We don’t as yet know what the sex of the new baby will be. They’d quite like a boy for a change but as long as it has ten fingers and toes and is healthy inside and out, it doesn’t really matter.
9.40 p.m. A call comes through to say 'It Won’t Be Long Now!' Enough of this procrastinating, I think, so I leap in the car, arrive at the hospital in record time and burst in through the double doors. I’m sent straight up to the fourth floor and there is my daughter, halfway between birth and afterbirth, looking calm, serene and very happy.
In a crib by her side is a tiny head covered in a dark mop of black hair.
‘You have another granddaughter!’ she says with no trace of disappointment, just joy and relief that the little mite has arrived safely.
Weighing in at 4.04 kgs or 8lbs. 9 ozs. in old money, the baby is to be called Xenia Minnie! My mother was called Zena, another grandmother was Minnie. Mouse may become her nickname but not from me!
So no toyboy stories this week I’m afraid, though I do have a tea date with one tomorrow. I’ve been washing, shopping, cooking, cleaning and generally performing my maternal duties like the good girl I sometimes am...
Some r ‘n r would be most welcome, but it’ll have to wait till next week...
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
A WEEK IN THE LIFE OF...
After the celebratory night of passione with The Smouldering One - aged 29 - I threw myself headlong into a hot date with a 70-year old.
This had all the similarities of trying to extract a bottle of fine wine from a handful of dry leaves. He is, however, an Old Friend and as he always shows an interest in my work, I gave him a copy of TB2 - The Daily Male.
He called me the next evening having read about a third of it.
"I need to have a serious talk with you, face to face, not over the phone," he said in deeply sombre tones, like a doctor who was about to tell me I have a terminal illness. "I think I've worked out what your problem is..."
Ooh eck! Do I want to hear this? No! Not if it's negative and not if it's critical. And definitely not if he's going to try to convince me that settling down for a life of dull domesticity with a man old enough to be my husband is the answer to all my prayers!
On Monday, I looked after my 15-month old grandson which is always an absolute joy and the best little boy toy a girl could have.
On Tuesday I guested on a chat show on Radio Coventry and Warwickshire. Yes! It finally happened! Today Coventry, tomorrow Ze Vurld! but the lowlight of my week came on Friday evening, when a girlfriend and I went to a double bill at the Arts Theatre.
The first half was called F**king Men, a well-written, well-acted play about gay love. So far so interesting. The second half, however, was called Naked Boys Dancing (or it may have been Singing...)
Now the clue should have been in the title but imagine our surprise when halfway through the penultimate number, we were presented with six limp dicks. Never mind too much information - this was simply too much vegetation. One limp dick is bad enough, but six? Enough to turn a girl vegetarian!
Unfortunately, my friend and I were bang in the middle of the second row which made it rather hard to get out. This was the only part of the performance that was rather hard. It emphasized the expression 'less is more'. They should have kept their kegs on, or a subtle towel at least...
When we eventually got home, I actually felt like gargling with Parazone. I'm not sure why, but somehow, having all that male genitalia shoved in my face was quite a turnoff...which may sound strange coming from me!
Luckily I was turned right back on again by a further date with The Smouldering One. I'm still not sure if I actually like him. He may have a Phd in Lovemaking but his personality is edgy and confrontational.
I might not see him again. But on the other hand...
Next week's blog will be entitled Lesbian Love Slut - you'll have to read it to find out why!
This had all the similarities of trying to extract a bottle of fine wine from a handful of dry leaves. He is, however, an Old Friend and as he always shows an interest in my work, I gave him a copy of TB2 - The Daily Male.
He called me the next evening having read about a third of it.
"I need to have a serious talk with you, face to face, not over the phone," he said in deeply sombre tones, like a doctor who was about to tell me I have a terminal illness. "I think I've worked out what your problem is..."
Ooh eck! Do I want to hear this? No! Not if it's negative and not if it's critical. And definitely not if he's going to try to convince me that settling down for a life of dull domesticity with a man old enough to be my husband is the answer to all my prayers!
On Monday, I looked after my 15-month old grandson which is always an absolute joy and the best little boy toy a girl could have.
On Tuesday I guested on a chat show on Radio Coventry and Warwickshire. Yes! It finally happened! Today Coventry, tomorrow Ze Vurld! but the lowlight of my week came on Friday evening, when a girlfriend and I went to a double bill at the Arts Theatre.
The first half was called F**king Men, a well-written, well-acted play about gay love. So far so interesting. The second half, however, was called Naked Boys Dancing (or it may have been Singing...)
Now the clue should have been in the title but imagine our surprise when halfway through the penultimate number, we were presented with six limp dicks. Never mind too much information - this was simply too much vegetation. One limp dick is bad enough, but six? Enough to turn a girl vegetarian!
Unfortunately, my friend and I were bang in the middle of the second row which made it rather hard to get out. This was the only part of the performance that was rather hard. It emphasized the expression 'less is more'. They should have kept their kegs on, or a subtle towel at least...
When we eventually got home, I actually felt like gargling with Parazone. I'm not sure why, but somehow, having all that male genitalia shoved in my face was quite a turnoff...which may sound strange coming from me!
Luckily I was turned right back on again by a further date with The Smouldering One. I'm still not sure if I actually like him. He may have a Phd in Lovemaking but his personality is edgy and confrontational.
I might not see him again. But on the other hand...
Next week's blog will be entitled Lesbian Love Slut - you'll have to read it to find out why!
Thursday, 9 July 2009
THE DAILY MAUL!
Check out today's FEMAIL online for a double page spread on yours truly...
My words and some of the facts are slightly distorted. After a 2 hour interview and 3 hour photoshoot, they chose to dumb down most of what I said and print a 2 year old photo but hey!
The ONLINE COMMENTS are the most interesting part...I'm reeling from the worldwide 'interest' or denigration of my lifestyle choices!
My words and some of the facts are slightly distorted. After a 2 hour interview and 3 hour photoshoot, they chose to dumb down most of what I said and print a 2 year old photo but hey!
The ONLINE COMMENTS are the most interesting part...I'm reeling from the worldwide 'interest' or denigration of my lifestyle choices!
Sunday, 5 July 2009
COLOUR ME HAPPY!
This weekend I experienced one of those magical moments when the stars are aligned in such perfect symmetry that one is possessed with a feeling of such utter euphoria, one just wants to capture it and hold onto it forever.
And for once, dear readers, it had nothing to do with a man!
I was out on a date with ARP, the Arrogant Rugby Player who sent me the pretty Myla lingerie some two years ago. He's been living in New York ever since but is now back in Blighty and invited me, rather belatedly, out for dinner.
We arrived at l'Atelier de Joel Robuchon a mere 15 minutes late - that's two years and 15 minutes if you're being pernickity, which I am. (Well worth the wait, incidentally. HISTORIC food - absolutely tip-top tickle your tastebuds tremendous).
The evening was going deliciously when, at about 10.30 p.m. my text went off. One of the children no doubt, I thought, as I grappled discreetly in my handbag and had a sneak peek. But no...it wasn't one of the children. It was my agent! At 10.30 p.m. on a Friday night? This had better be good!
The text read: Sorry so late but if you can, please call me. News!
I apologized to ARP and with a flutter in my heart and a prayer on my lips, I stepped onto the pavement. The paparazzi were out in force, waiting to snap some poor unsuspecting C-listers emerging from The Ivy just up the road.
I returned the call, my voice eager with anticipation. If this was what I hoped it would be, I would be soon be dancing in the streets. Perhaps the paps wouldn't notice.
The News! was that after a whole year of waiting and hoping (because my agent thought it best not to advance it until Toyboy Diaries 2 was on the shelves) I heard that my first novel BLOOD ON THE SAND, a project very close to my heart, has been accepted for publication!
Euphoric does not begin to cover it!!! I thanked my agent profusely and dashed back into the restaurant. I flung my arms around ARP's neck, swigged down the remains of my Bellini and ordered another.
And then that feeling overtook me, powering through me like electricity, sparking up every crevice of my being and igniting my very viscera with pure, unadulterated joy. I still can't believe it! I'm going to be a novelist! A lifelong ambition is about to come true!
The evening ended back at mine with me beating ARP roundly at Scrabble.
On Saturday night, The Smouldering One came over and we took a picnic to the park. He continued to 'smoulder' until the early hours of the following morning when we finally got some sleep.
I still haven't managed to wipe the smile off my face. It must be very annoying to anyone who hasn't had such great news and for that, I can only apologize...but I hope to continue entertaining you with fiction for a long, long time to come.
And for once, dear readers, it had nothing to do with a man!
I was out on a date with ARP, the Arrogant Rugby Player who sent me the pretty Myla lingerie some two years ago. He's been living in New York ever since but is now back in Blighty and invited me, rather belatedly, out for dinner.
We arrived at l'Atelier de Joel Robuchon a mere 15 minutes late - that's two years and 15 minutes if you're being pernickity, which I am. (Well worth the wait, incidentally. HISTORIC food - absolutely tip-top tickle your tastebuds tremendous).
The evening was going deliciously when, at about 10.30 p.m. my text went off. One of the children no doubt, I thought, as I grappled discreetly in my handbag and had a sneak peek. But no...it wasn't one of the children. It was my agent! At 10.30 p.m. on a Friday night? This had better be good!
The text read: Sorry so late but if you can, please call me. News!
I apologized to ARP and with a flutter in my heart and a prayer on my lips, I stepped onto the pavement. The paparazzi were out in force, waiting to snap some poor unsuspecting C-listers emerging from The Ivy just up the road.
I returned the call, my voice eager with anticipation. If this was what I hoped it would be, I would be soon be dancing in the streets. Perhaps the paps wouldn't notice.
The News! was that after a whole year of waiting and hoping (because my agent thought it best not to advance it until Toyboy Diaries 2 was on the shelves) I heard that my first novel BLOOD ON THE SAND, a project very close to my heart, has been accepted for publication!
Euphoric does not begin to cover it!!! I thanked my agent profusely and dashed back into the restaurant. I flung my arms around ARP's neck, swigged down the remains of my Bellini and ordered another.
And then that feeling overtook me, powering through me like electricity, sparking up every crevice of my being and igniting my very viscera with pure, unadulterated joy. I still can't believe it! I'm going to be a novelist! A lifelong ambition is about to come true!
The evening ended back at mine with me beating ARP roundly at Scrabble.
On Saturday night, The Smouldering One came over and we took a picnic to the park. He continued to 'smoulder' until the early hours of the following morning when we finally got some sleep.
I still haven't managed to wipe the smile off my face. It must be very annoying to anyone who hasn't had such great news and for that, I can only apologize...but I hope to continue entertaining you with fiction for a long, long time to come.
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
CRACKING REVIEW!
Whoever gave me that fabulous review on Amazon - THANK YOU!!! So glad you enjoyed the book. Very gratifying to know - I appreciate the time and effort to review it, so thanks again. If you read this, reveal yourself, so I can thank you personally.
x
x
Sunday, 28 June 2009
LET'S GO ROUND AGAIN!
The publicity machine cranked into action with a double page spread in the Daily Express and an appearance on a late night chat show on Radio 5 Live on Saturday evening.
There are several interviews lined up on national radio and in a variety of magazines. I shall know I've finally "arrived" when I'm invited to fall off a cliff into a snake pit wearing nothing but a smile and a pair of stilettos in a new TV reality show called I'm a Nobody - Get Me Into There!
Socially, the hot and hopeful date last Saturday night with The Poetic One ended, not with a full English breakfast on Sunday morning, but a skulking off at dawn with his tail between his legs...
I cannot elaborate for fear of hurting his feelings but after such a long and promising build-up, had I been a virgin (I said Had I!!) I'd still have been intacta the following day...
Friday dawns and with it a date with someone I've have my eye on for quite some time. Having spent the afternoon in a field watching my grandchildren running, jumping, and falling over during the egg, spoon and sack races of their school Sports Day, I meet up with The Smouldering One late in the evening.
A wonderfully balmy night in Little Venice provides the perfect backdrop for our slow, sensual meander along the canals, stopping at intervals to have a drink and then get thrown out of a selection of local hosteleries - not because we were behaving badly, but because of their proximity to residential properties which means they are not granted outside licences beyond 10 or 11 p.m.
And so we find ourselves, far too early into our first date, not knowing where to go next. Loath to invite him home lest he produce an axe and chop me to pieces, we cruise along in my new convertible (yes! I was showing off!) and do a recce round the 'hood looking for a late night bar in which to continue our conversation. Having found nowhere suitable, I question my instinct which answers 'Go on, he seems OK.'
We sit out on my terrace drinking scotch on the rocks and listening to Cuban music until 1.45 a.m. I talk too much. Too much about my past. I should have said I was only interested in the present and the future. Remind me to remember this. No man no matter his age (this one will be 40 - one day...in about 12 years' time!) wants to hear about some older woman's bad marriages and worse divorces.
I fancy the guy but I'm not sure if it's reciprocated. Like me, he's an Aquarian. I recognize some of my worst traits. He's blunt and confrontational. He spent a lot of time staring at me with a deep intensity I couldn't read. It made me cross my arms protectively across my chest in a very bad demonstration of 'feeling threatened' body language. He's definitely not a Yes man. I quite like Yes men. They're not such hard work. But they're not as interesting either.
At around 2 a.m. I said I was tired and like a gentleman, he left. But not before teasing my mouth very slowly with his and grazing his lips against mine like a promise.
I stood my ground. Refused to react...but if he comes my way again, arms folded across my chest won't be enough. I better buy a suit of armour.
There are several interviews lined up on national radio and in a variety of magazines. I shall know I've finally "arrived" when I'm invited to fall off a cliff into a snake pit wearing nothing but a smile and a pair of stilettos in a new TV reality show called I'm a Nobody - Get Me Into There!
Socially, the hot and hopeful date last Saturday night with The Poetic One ended, not with a full English breakfast on Sunday morning, but a skulking off at dawn with his tail between his legs...
I cannot elaborate for fear of hurting his feelings but after such a long and promising build-up, had I been a virgin (I said Had I!!) I'd still have been intacta the following day...
Friday dawns and with it a date with someone I've have my eye on for quite some time. Having spent the afternoon in a field watching my grandchildren running, jumping, and falling over during the egg, spoon and sack races of their school Sports Day, I meet up with The Smouldering One late in the evening.
A wonderfully balmy night in Little Venice provides the perfect backdrop for our slow, sensual meander along the canals, stopping at intervals to have a drink and then get thrown out of a selection of local hosteleries - not because we were behaving badly, but because of their proximity to residential properties which means they are not granted outside licences beyond 10 or 11 p.m.
And so we find ourselves, far too early into our first date, not knowing where to go next. Loath to invite him home lest he produce an axe and chop me to pieces, we cruise along in my new convertible (yes! I was showing off!) and do a recce round the 'hood looking for a late night bar in which to continue our conversation. Having found nowhere suitable, I question my instinct which answers 'Go on, he seems OK.'
We sit out on my terrace drinking scotch on the rocks and listening to Cuban music until 1.45 a.m. I talk too much. Too much about my past. I should have said I was only interested in the present and the future. Remind me to remember this. No man no matter his age (this one will be 40 - one day...in about 12 years' time!) wants to hear about some older woman's bad marriages and worse divorces.
I fancy the guy but I'm not sure if it's reciprocated. Like me, he's an Aquarian. I recognize some of my worst traits. He's blunt and confrontational. He spent a lot of time staring at me with a deep intensity I couldn't read. It made me cross my arms protectively across my chest in a very bad demonstration of 'feeling threatened' body language. He's definitely not a Yes man. I quite like Yes men. They're not such hard work. But they're not as interesting either.
At around 2 a.m. I said I was tired and like a gentleman, he left. But not before teasing my mouth very slowly with his and grazing his lips against mine like a promise.
I stood my ground. Refused to react...but if he comes my way again, arms folded across my chest won't be enough. I better buy a suit of armour.
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