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table

have you ever, while sitting at your kitchen table, pondering the Mysteries Of Life (what is shane macgowan’s liver made of?) over a cup of tea and the last of the gingerbread, been disturbed by a Suspicious Noise and then looked down to discover that your horde (flock? tribe?) of sweet little guinea pigs are having some sort of identity crisis and seem quite firmly convinced that they’re actually beavers, with their hearts set on shouting timber! and making the table tip over?

no? just me, then.

have you ever idly scratched at the surface of said table to remove some candle wax spills only to discover that idle scratching apparently results in gouging?

(massive wood. ikea, i don’t think that means what you think it means.)

 

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