I don't know what it is about this year, perhaps the fact that it may well be the last time that I spend my birthday in the UK, but I've been feeling rather melancholic about turning 24. Sitting on the number 8 from Liverpool St this evening after dinner and drinks in Shoreditch, my hands felt empty without the big brown paper bag containing a
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p/s: Isn't your birthday on the 22nd?
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