Some things in life are dry; the Sahara is a fine example. Jacob's cream crackers, another. Even Jack Dee is dryer than a laundrette's tumbler range, but I, my friends, am not. It is not too much of a curse; I may be a sweaty man, but I am thankfully not a smelly man. If I were, I would have to cut short my time in Santiago and move directly to Antarctica, not passing go, certainly not collecting 200 pounds (or 400 dollars, if you are one of the Australian contingent), but I would perhaps be able to slide my way there on the curve of a single armpit, rather than take the already booked flight down south. Yes, it is hot here. I read a Michael J. Fox book in the last few days where
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