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  • My son and me are magpies. We have a knack, you see, of finding things. Like the crystal chandelier drop he found in a graveyard. Skirling around the petticoats of the church's stone walls he found it - buried in a grubby patch of dandelions.

    Lately, he has become good at finding mushrooms. Great bulbous field mushrooms or spindly inocybe - damp and loamy in the rain. He roots around in the hedge seemingly sure of the exact spot that he will find something. He's only three but I have high hopes of him. I'm sure he'll find a truffle soon.

    He brings all his treasures to me. Not to keep you understand. It's just that I have spacious pockets. When we've finally closed the door on the day behind us he will want to gloat over his haul again. Pulling them out of my coat as it hangs on the stairs, carefully lying them in rows on the carpet, showing me the particularly pretty ones.

    Which is why I find myself suddenly brought short buying bread. Pulling a sulphurous Hypholoma from my pocket instead of my purse. Tricked with fairy gold - my money turned to dust in my hand.
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