how if you've had a few/You’ll wake at dawn, all healthy, like sea breezes,/Raring to go . . . And then, oh Jesus,/It hits you." He looks down at the skip and sees his life there, "still sodden, on the bricks;/there lay my poor old life, arse over tip./Or was it mine?"from Frieda Hughes: The Times: Whose life is it anyway?
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