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It was past midnight in Norwich. There was a keen wind rifling up London Street. It was dark and it was January. I was hoarse, my feet hurt and, more to the point, I was cold. I had been punishing myself for four-and-a-half hours reciting poems by Eliot, Larkin, Wordsworth and Whitman.
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Gary Dexter used to write The Spectator’s ‘Alternative reading’ column. He recites at weddings, and also offers flute lessons: see garydexter.co.uk.
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