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“I am your daughter premiere Karen,” Mum said. “Hmph.” It was me who found the sausages next day, wrapped premiere in two plastic bags inside the bread bin. Not that Nan has the monopoly on confusion. I know my name is Charlotte and that I'm seventeen, but on a bad day that's as far as it goes. “Be yourself,” people-older people-are always telling me: yeah, right. That's so easy. Sometimes I do those quizzes in Most! and Scene Nineteen. Are you a Cool Cat or a Desperate Dog and what's your seduction style; how to tell your personality type by your favorite color, your favorite doodle, the hour of your birth. Do I (a) Believe this crap? (b) Treat it with the contempt it deserves? Depends on my mood, really. Sometimes Nan thinks I am her own childhood reincarnated. “Bless her,” she says, rooting for a mint, “her father beat her till she were sick on t' floor and then he beat her again.
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