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At the present claim he and his mates had toiled for months, overcoming one difficulty after another.

Well, they wouldn't be many; this was not a place that made old bones.

And, as he sat, worked on by grief and liquor, he was seized by a desperate homesickness for the old country. He shut his eyes, and all the well-known sights and sounds of the familiar streets came back to him.

Most advice-column advice comes down to “Have you tried telling that person what you just told me? w=480" class=" wp-image-2417 " title="awkwardcard" src="https://captainawkwarddotcom.files.wordpress.com/2011/01/awkwardcard.jpg? w=384&h=480" alt="It's a drawing of Captain Awkward wearing a crown!

People who write to advice columnists are usually looking for help in having a difficult conversation.

In hindsight, my Facebook post should prbably have said "I've blown the head gasket on my 1998 Ford XR3" rather than "I've just fucked a fourteen year old escort".

The police still haven't seen the funny side of it, and they've confiscated my laptop.

He had been a lamplighter in the old country, and for many years had known no more arduous task than that of tramping round certain streets three times daily, ladder on shoulder, bitch at heel, to attend the little flames that helped to dispel the London dark.

And he might have jogged on at this up to three score years and ten, had he never lent an ear to the tales that were being told of a wonderful country, where, for the mere act of stooping, and with your naked hand, you could pick up a fortune from the ground.

They had only been eight in all—a hand-to-mouth number for a deep wet hole.

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