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It was election day 1929, and we were mucking about on top of sapphic the wall by the polling station. It was about six feet up and you were all right as long as you sat astride the copestone, only sapphic I'd turned sidesaddle so as to spot the people who'd voted Conservative; my dad said you could see it in their faces. Jimmy nudged me and we started singing: “Vote! Vote! Vote for Alec Sharrock, sapphic He is sure to win the day. And we'll get a salmon tin And we'll put the Tory in And he'll never see his mother any more.” I swung my legs to make the words come out better, and the next thing I knew I was sprawled on the ground with my arm underneath me. Jimmy tried to make a sling out of the yellow muslin banners we'd been waving, but I screamed and he started to cry in panic. It hurt so much I was afraid to get up in case I left my arm on the floor. The following day, when we heard the Labor Party'd got in, Dad got so drunk he couldn't open the back gate.
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