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  • By day my mother was the cleaner at a local school, but by night she was a great artist. She had a studio — an old shed — at the back of the garden, full of paint and oil and chicken-wire and clay. If you went anywhere near that shed you'd get paint on you. (Sometimes if you just thought hard enough about that shed you'd get paint on you — so watch out). She drew portraits of people from the village and sometimes she sculpted clay heads of the men she'd met along the way. And then, when we needed the money, she'd just forge a Renoir or a Degas or a fake Van Gogh.

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