There are three words, here, and a dead give away, to boot: [img]smilies/smile.gif[/img]
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Being very fond of trains, I once took the Far Northern Line from Oregon, into Canada, and across the continent – passing from English to French, and back again, in a matter of days. The Bar Car became my usual haunt, and I sought out it out on a daily basis, liking to watch the landscape roll by as I sipped an exquisite concoction called The Flying Dutchman. I asked for the recipe on my last day aboard, and the Jamaican server flashed his gleaming smile, in response. ‘I’ll ask the chief ta instruct ya, ma’am,’ he said hurriedly. Taking another lovely tumbler of it from his cart, he daintily placed it before me.
‘Enjoy!’ he said. And I did.
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Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.
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