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Malcolm Redfellow's Home Service

Boa, westward

Malcolm spent thirty-six hours while a hacking,wracking, rancid cough developed into the full-blown streaming head-cold. This meant much of the Saturday press passed him by.

So, this Sunday morning, sniffling over coffee and marmalade, he ignored the trivial newsy stuff and concentrated on the real meat: the supplements.

And, as a further consequence, in short order he read:


One so dystopian it underlines Malcolm’s settled intention never to go near Motown: the other … well, try this from Viney himself:

The landscape of Fermanagh, it occurred to me, would be Ireland’s best refuge for hobbits, if we had them. The heights of the county are frowning and wild, it’s true, and even quite scary at the windy clefts of Cuilcagh’s…

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