![]() ![]() I hadn’t the heart to tell him how much what he had done disgusted me. He had shot the creature himself and thought I would appreciate the gift as I had spoken of my admiration for the animals. One day, while still at school, he had turned up with a squirrel’s tail as a present for me. Marc was an ugly ginger-haired boy who had been in my class at school, who, despite the fact that we had no common interests, had somehow managed to become my friend, in the way that children make friendships by seemingly stumbling blindly, mindlessly into them. Indeed, I may lose a job or a girlfriend and what my mind will turn up, will nose out like a bloodhound, will be something like Marc Richardson standing outside Thomas Rotherham College one afternoon. In times of unhappiness my mind rummages around in the past for poignant or painful memories, as though seeking some kind of brotherhood or solidarity they need not be alike, the present feeling and the memory, in any way other than sharing the quality of being hurtful. ![]()
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