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“You’re Ian McMillan!” he says, his finger jabbing the air between me and him. I nod. “You’re a poet!” he says. His voice is rising a little.
I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do.
It’s 1971 and I’m 15 years old, reading Dylan Thomas. Then I run in to George.