As I write this I see them walking past me, down the mountain. Girls, boys, fathers, mothers, grandfathers, grandmothers, grown teenagers, a labrador with his tongue on his legs. They wear caps and shirts with polka dots, they carry cool boxes, water bottles and bags full of junk from the advertising caravan. I don’t know exactly how many people it is. I didn’t count them. A lot, anyway. Very very much.
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