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Last Friday was Margret's birthday. I bought her this oriental, geisha-style pyjama thing (Margret — 'Hey! I could have a go at that massage they do; I could jump on your back.' Me — 'Walk, they walk on your back.' Close call there.) while I was down in London. She liked it. Simple. Clearly, I've been a fool and all I needed to do to get Margret a present she likes was make sure I asked nearly every single woman who works for The Guardian newspaper what the hell I should buy. It wasn't her favourite birthday present, though, not by a long way. There were almost tears of delight when her best friend turned up at the birthday party and surprised her with two bags full of horse manure. I mean, it seems so obvious now, of course.

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