By now you probably have a picture of me in your head. So, what am I? Young or old? Male or female? Or perhaps male and female? The shoe that now housed my fifty – do you see it as a sneaker, a loafer or high heel? Am I attractive? Rich? Maybe you're the sort that likes to argue that we can never truly know one another. But I want you to know me. So, what am I? Who am I?
The answers I'm afraid will have to wait. Because in this part of the story I looked down at my watch and realised I was running late. And on that dark afternoon, I knew I most certainly didn't want to keep The Man waiting.
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