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Brumal. My word of the day. It means wintry. I imagine an icy, frostbitten broom outside a country cottage. Nothing like my current situation. I glance around the office, with its black Christmas tree, decorated with corporate baubles. There’s a collection box, half filled with dog food and out of date peaches, for the local foodbank. A different kind of corporate bauble. I suddenly miss my village church. The frosted grass against the grey Victorian tombstones. The annual charity drive. The hymns, the mince pies, the candles, the ghosts of peoples’ breath as they leave. I miss being a vicar.



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