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Plucking a Chicken

October 26, 2016

I just spoke to my aunt’s friend. She told me that her father had been a signwriter and used to paint signs and banners by hand. ‘Everyone knew and loved my Dad,’ she said. ‘He once turned up wearing a mac that was too long for him. It reached right down to the ground. He said it was no bother because he walked with his hands in his pockets.’ Her father could fall asleep anywhere, she said. ‘He once fell asleep in the middle of plucking a chicken. The chicken was still in his hands.’

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