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Later that week, murmuring, ‘It is a far, far better thing
that I do now…’ I flicked dust from my sleeve and took
my last steps on earth to my long foretold doom. Or, rather, I got laid by someone other than my husband.
#
Paul and I had arranged to go shopping in London. We met at Slough
train
station, or rather, like any good conventional brace of married people
playing away, we met in a stationary carriage, sat opposite one another
with tentative half-smiles of recognition and looked about us for
familiar faces until the train pulled out.
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Oh, the whole thing was absurdly, deliciously conventional. We snogged
in the taxi to Camden market and walked hand in hand about the stalls.
We found a lingerie shop and Paul insisted that I try on some corsets.
A dark-hairedValkyrie with twelve-foot-long legs was squeezing on leather
gear in the adjacent changing cubicle. She blatantly eyed me up and
made appreciative remarks as I stripped and tried on the corsets.
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