I met a man who swallowed goats whole — horns and all. I know this because he lifted up his pale
blue Oxford shirt and pointed to a pair of rusty asterisks on his stomach. He worked in a sales
office for a multinational tyre manufacturer. Grew roses with old-fashioned English names. Spoke
affectionately about his golden Labrador Maisie. He might have been the greatest church organist
in his area. The man didn't have a shaved head or an Old Testament beard, but something
electrified in the air when his pondweed eyes twinkled and he spoke about the importance of being
anchored to community, family and God. Preached the value of not herding yourself into a corner.
He tasted delicious. I never caught his name.
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