Just as I was leaving Won's Westwon, the tiger's eyes were upon me each second as I went to get a fork, put on my jumpers and coat, as though looking at the computer screen she obliquely regarded me with suspicion using her peripheral vision each minutiae of a second, every millisecond from me taking a plastic fork, putting my jacket on, and walking out. No-one it seems, is above suspicion. Not people from Bridders anyway.
Word on the street is that an interlocutor about ancient things may no longer be at the funny farm, but seems like he is surviving.
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