at ten o'clock on a Sunday morning.
GoodNews has picked it all up already, of course. We sit down to a hastily assembled ploughman's lunch, and without invitation he wades into the stagnant, foul-smelling pond that is Mark's life.
'I'm sorry if you think I'm being a bit
pink nike heels, you know,' he begins. 'But when we shook hands??? Man, you nearly took my arm off.'
'I'm sorry
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sale christan loubitons, and it seemed like a pretty straightforward handshake to me; at no stage did it look as though anyone would end up with a permanent disability. 'Did I hurt you?'
'In here you hurt me.' GoodNews taps his heart. 'Because it hurts when I know fellow human beings are in trouble. And if ever a hand was shouting for help it was yours.'
Mark cannot help it: he has a quick look, back and front, to see if there is any evidence of this manual distress.
'Nah, you won't see anything there. It's not a, like a visible thing. I mean, I feel it physically. Ow. You know?' And he winces and massages his hand, to demonstrate the pain that Mark so recently caused him. 'But sadness is a right sod for keeping itself hidden away. A right sod. Gotta come out sometime, though, and it's pouring out of you.'
'Oh
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