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Blow, Winds, And Crack Your Cheeks!
November 28, 2004, 8:17 p.m. The clouds began piling at Hornsby; the heat broke at Strathfield; the wind whipped up at Lewisham. Saint-saen’s Danse Macabre kicked in on my iPod, and my hair, which I’d let out to combat the cooling air, began to dance in time to both wind and music. My skirt responded in kind, and as the violins swelled, the wind grew in ferocity, my hair began blinding me. I grinned madly and conducted an imaginary orchestra with one hand, hugging a complete works of Shakespeare to my chest with the other. I crested the hill and the music reached crescendo with the wind as its partner – no longer could I conduct the orchestra, constrained as I was by need to hold skirt in check and push hair from face. I swayed crazily on the curb at the lights, as cars full of yobbos swept by, wolf-whistling. I didn’t care. The music maddened and swirled and the wind begged me to follow it. I reached the threshold of home as the music died, and I left the wind outside alone
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