We used to have a friend called Puffin. He worked in 'the arts'; illustrator or maybe photographer, I'm not sure which.
Puffin lived at the top of the road in our Sussex seaside town. He had a pleasant home, a pleasant wife, and pleasant kids. He seemed to have a very pleasant life.
One day it all fell apart. Then came divorce, loss of home, alcohol, even begging on the street. He once asked me for a pound.
I don't quite know what happened to him, but I would often see him wandering aimlessly around town, as his ex-wife took a job in a well-known high street store.
He took to travelling on busses. Finally, on a No 7 bus, he died. People just thought he was asleep as the bus went round and round its daily circuit.
Yes; he died on a No 7 bus, and no-one noticed! Not waving but drowning? No, not sleeping but dead.... Poor old Puffin.
Tsin Tskaro - Hamlet Gonashvili - Well I need to listen to this even if you don't. At some point in my life, I want to drink Georgian wine from Georgian pots, in Georgia. Not too much to ...
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