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Tales from the crypt

Please take heede in’ what ye wear:
a mortale chille shall fille the aiyre!
we meete at Seven – so dress up welle,
Descende from heav’n; into H
H
H
H
H

H

!

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‘Heeeelllllll!!!!’ I cry, as I fall down stone steps into a church crypt, twisting my ankle. I stagger forth towards a bar and am poured swiftly, some pain-numbing red wine.

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I am Crow-y, a dark and wretched bird, used to haunting graveyards and dim-lit streets, looking for scraps on which to feast.

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Tonight I’m scavenging at a birthday banquet. Lamb tagine, exotic breads, rocket and radishes, dips made with beetroot and sticky molasses.

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This is not the kind of party I am likely to attend twice…

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Not if my hostess finds her evening’s remains on the Internet, that isn’t nice.

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But for tonight, friends, I shall admire with beady black eyes and taste with greedy tongue…

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The scene, the wine, and this deathly throng.

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