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It’s cold outside and in, but the effort of getting ready brings a glow to our cheeks, a heated stickiness to fresh-bathed flesh that resists being clad.

The taxi arrives, drives, deposits us. Arm in arm, we totter off across the cobbles. Nineteen again. Our destination waits, none the wiser.

A collapsed ankle, a quiet curse, an uncomfortable sense of deja vu.
A hair-messing blast of north wind, a puddle-splash from a car, the reassuring arm of a co-conspirator.

When we get there it’s dark, hot, noisy. The lights are low, the ceiling is lower, the company lowest of all.