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75 Meat I want to lick the plate where the Bratwurst lay but I’m in the deli. I go to the cold meats counter: a pile of thick-sliced Leberkäse, a fistful of Viennas, rare roast beef slivered off a giant brown and pink hunk, plate-sized slices of Gypsy Ham, a full deck of lavender and white back bacon, chicken breasts and thighs in an orgy of marinade, creamy pork bangers neatly spooning beneath cling film. Meatballs for chicken soup. Lamb chops for later A roast for Sunday. I am carnivorous and out of control. I push my flesh-laden trolley to the till, count out bills like Monopoly money. I am in the thrall of a vast hunger, a terrible protein injunction. Images of naked rumps and bellies, of plates and palates, crowd around the table of my mysterious need. A baby in a pram waves his chubby legs at me. I want to bite his thigh. ...

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