It was eight minutes past five on a balmy summer's afternoon in Paris when a beautiful voice reached out to me. I had my head in a dumpster as I tried desperately to heave a refuse sack full of fifty empty bottles of bubbly over, up, and in. 'Spliff?' the voice enquired. It had a French edge, laced with irreverent, languid overtures, but more than anything its offering carried hope. I was
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