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I couldn't be at home-the sun never bloody shines in Kidinsborough, my hometown, voted worst town in England three years in a row before local political pressure got the show taken off the air. My parents zoned out of earshot, just drifted off like someone tuning a radio.

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I had no idea if they were there or if they ever had been. I knew I wasn't moving, but inside I felt as though I was squirming and wriggling and trapped inside a body-shaped prison someone had buried me in. I could shout, but no one could hear me. I tried to move, but it wasn't working. The dazzle would turn to black and back again to the sun, and none of it made the faintest bit of sense to me as I dreamt-or lived-great big nightmares about toes and feet and parents who spontaneously disappear and whether this was going crazy and whether I'd actually dreamt my whole other life, the bit about being me, Anna Trent, thirty years old, taster in a chocolate factory.

Yes, actually. While we're at it, here are my top ten "Taster in a Chocolate Factory" jokes that I get at Faces, our local nightclub. It's not a very nice nightclub, but the rest are really much, much worse:.

Haley of Fangirl Fury. Reader. Pawnee goddess. Fiercely loyal Hufflepuff. Fangirl by heart.

No, no one has ever done a poo in the chocolate vat. Though I wouldn't necessarily have put it past Flynn. No, I don't feel sick when confronted with chocolate; I absolutely adore it. But if it makes you feel better about your job to think that I am, feel free. Oh, that is so interesting that you have something even tastier than chocolate in your underpants, yawn. I normally just grimace and look at something else for a while. My best mate Cath soon takes care of them anyway.

Or, occasionally, dates them.


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Yes, I can make actual real chocolate, although at Braders Family Chocolates, they're all processed automatically in a huge vat and I'm more of a supervisor really. I wish I did more complex work, but according to the bosses, nobody wants their chocolates messed about with; they want them tasting exactly the same and lasting a long time. So it's quite a synthetic process. No, it's not the best job in the world.

Book review: The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris by Jenny Colgan

But it's mine and I like it. Or at least I did, until I ended up in here. A man was sitting on the end of my bed. I couldn't focus on him. He knew my name but I didn't know his. That seemed unfair. I tried to open my mouth. It was full of sand. Someone had put sand in my mouth.


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Why would anyone do that? The voice came again. It was definitely real, and it was definitely connected to the shadow at the end of my bed. Well, of course I can hear you. You're sitting on the end of my bed shouting at me was what I wanted to say, but all that came out was a kind of dry croak. I don't know whether the nurse came or not, because I was suddenly gone again.

My last conscious thought was that I hoped she or he didn't mind being yelled at by people who sat on other people's beds. And I couldn't remember: had my parents said something was wrong with my nose? It was the same voice, but how much later I couldn't tell. The light seemed different. A sudden shock of pain traveled through me like a lightning bolt and I gasped.

Thankfully someone spoke desert sand, because instantly a plastic cup was put to my lips. I slurped it down and asked for another, but someone said no, and that was that. Maybe I was in prison. Oddly, it was slightly to spite my mother's lack of ambition for me in the eye-opening department that really made me try.

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The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris - All About Romance

I flickered and suddenly hazing into view was the shape sitting on the end of my bed I'd been aware of before-I wished he'd stop that-and two shapes as familiar as my own hands. I could make out my mother's reddish hair that she colored at home, even though my best mate Cath had offered to do it down at the salon for a price that she thought was next to nothing, but my mother thought that was extravagant and that Cath was loose that last bit was true, though that had nothing to do with how good she was at hair, which admittedly also wasn't very , so about one week a month my mum had this kind of odd, henna-like fringe around the top of her forehead where she hadn't wiped it off properly.

And my dad was in his best shirt, which really made me worry. He didn't dress like that for anything but weddings and funerals, and I was pretty much percent sure I wasn't getting married, unless Darr had suddenly regenerated into a completely different physical and personality type, and I figured that unlikely. My mum burst into tears. My dad, not prone to huge outbursts of affection, gently squeezed my hand-the hand, I noticed, that didn't have a big tube going into it, right under the skin. My other hand did.

It was the grossest thing I'd ever seen in my life.

The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris

The lightning-sharp pain flashed through me again, from the toes of my left foot upward right through my body. I suddenly became aware of other tubes on me, some going in and out of places I didn't really want to discuss in front of my dad. I went quiet. I felt really, really weird. Over the next few days, I seemed to fall asleep on and off and at completely random moments. Ed-yes, really, that's how he referred to himself-was my named specialist.

Yeah, all right, I know he was a doctor and everything, tra la la, but you can be Ed or you can be, like, Dr. Smith or something. Anything else is just showing off, like you're a doctor on telly or something. I think Dr. Ed would have LOVED to have been a doctor on the telly, looking at people who've got two bumholes and things. He was always very smartly turned out and did things like sit on the end of the bed, which other doctors didn't do, and look at you in the eye, like he was making a huge effort to be with you as a person. I think I preferred the snotty consultant who came around once a week, barely looked at me, and asked his medical students embarrassing questions.

Anyway, Dr. Ed shouldn't have been so chummy because it was kind of his fault that I was even there. I had slipped at the factory-everyone had gotten very excited wondering if there was some health and safety rule that hadn't been followed and we were all about to become millionaires, but actually as it turned out it was completely my fault. It was an unusually warm spring day and I'd decided to try out my new shoes, which turned out to be hilariously inappropriate for the factory floor, and I'd skidded and, in a total freak, hit a vat ladder and upended the entire thing.

Then I'd come into the hospital and gotten sick. Maybe he just liked to practice for going on television. Perhaps there was something misprinted on my medical notes that said instead of being nearly thirty-one, I was in fact eight. Ed, like he was Spider-Man or something. I didn't mention that if everyone had cleaned up with every mop they had, I probably wouldn't have caught it in the first place.


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