It is taking me a little while to settle into my new existence. And that means that the place of the blog in my daily routine is uncertain, mainly because I have yet to find that routine! Your patience in returning is encouragement enough to continue blogging and I do hope that the usual, near daily, service will resume very soon.
I am also considering adding some video blogging stuff here, if the tech works. Any appeal in that?
Until then....
Friday, September 21, 2012
Monday, September 17, 2012
A Disreputable Discourse
There comes a time in every prison debate where the assertion is made, "If you can't do the time..." This, and its linguistic analogues, is often made in response to some prisoner's complaint. And it is a disgusting, cowardly response whose sole intent is to absolve all those involved in criminal justice - from the lowest screw to the highest policy maker - for any decision that they make.
Brutality in prison? Don't commit crime, then. Crap food? Then don't commit crime. Shocking resettlement services? Tough - don't commit crime. The trouble with this broad argument is that it attempts to blame every criminal for every malign, incompetent or plain malicious act or decision made by, for example, prison staff. Somehow, their limited vision and poorly delivered service is the fault of their charges. "If you can't do the time..."
This is truly contemptible. Most prisoners accept responsibility for their crime. Lifers, for instance, have a remarkably high rate of Guilty pleas. We accept the personal destruction and social damage that we caused. Those who parrot the "well don't go to prison, then" in response to any criticism of the penal system are adopting a completely converse stance.
Unlike prisoners, they refuse to accept any responsibility for their decisions or their actions. If they batter a con in Frankland block; if they serve a feeble diet; if they enforce policies which break up families; even if they follow practices which they know will increase the rats of reoffending - they blame the prisoners.
This is truly the argument of last resort for the dishonourable and dishonest, for those who take the taxpayer's shilling and then run a shoddy enterprise which they know full well produces future criminals. Whilst they bleat about caring about victims, they daily insist on running a prison system which is almost guaranteed to produce future social harm.
To blame the criminals and the prisoners for the decisions and practices springing from prison staff is repugnant. It is made worse by it being a mantra for those who then willfully refuse to examine their consciences or flex whatever neurons they posses.
Anybody who says, "don't commit the crime, then..." as an excuse for their own professional shortcomings is morally bankrupt and intellectually feeble. And they certainly should have no authority over other human beings.
Brutality in prison? Don't commit crime, then. Crap food? Then don't commit crime. Shocking resettlement services? Tough - don't commit crime. The trouble with this broad argument is that it attempts to blame every criminal for every malign, incompetent or plain malicious act or decision made by, for example, prison staff. Somehow, their limited vision and poorly delivered service is the fault of their charges. "If you can't do the time..."
This is truly contemptible. Most prisoners accept responsibility for their crime. Lifers, for instance, have a remarkably high rate of Guilty pleas. We accept the personal destruction and social damage that we caused. Those who parrot the "well don't go to prison, then" in response to any criticism of the penal system are adopting a completely converse stance.
Unlike prisoners, they refuse to accept any responsibility for their decisions or their actions. If they batter a con in Frankland block; if they serve a feeble diet; if they enforce policies which break up families; even if they follow practices which they know will increase the rats of reoffending - they blame the prisoners.
This is truly the argument of last resort for the dishonourable and dishonest, for those who take the taxpayer's shilling and then run a shoddy enterprise which they know full well produces future criminals. Whilst they bleat about caring about victims, they daily insist on running a prison system which is almost guaranteed to produce future social harm.
To blame the criminals and the prisoners for the decisions and practices springing from prison staff is repugnant. It is made worse by it being a mantra for those who then willfully refuse to examine their consciences or flex whatever neurons they posses.
Anybody who says, "don't commit the crime, then..." as an excuse for their own professional shortcomings is morally bankrupt and intellectually feeble. And they certainly should have no authority over other human beings.
The Resettlement Joke and Reoffending
I had no illusions about release. Life was not going to unroll before me like a hand-woven carpet lined by topless angels waving spliffs rolled with fifty quid rizlas. If nothing else, there would be the small matter of my having dealings with the various bureaucracies that comprise a modern society.
Having been enmeshed in the most potent of bureaucracies all of my adult life, I have a profound appreciation of bureaucracy and the individuals whose collective efforts shape them. They can be scary. Bureaucracies that are intended to "help" us mere mortals in some way are perhaps the scariest of all.
Having no existence but as an occupant of a cell, a number on the Roll Board and an entry on the PNC then I would inevitably be visiting more bureaucracies In Freedom than most. And let's be perfectly clear here - I am exceptionally fortunate as ex cons go in the level of support that I have. Friends, family and The Editor all surround and support me.
Just as well. For I was discharged with the statutory £46 quid, intended to last until either a job or benefits arrived. Being one of the leper class, a job was not high on the list of probable miracles to occur.And again, I am luckier than most, with several things "in the pipeline" as media folk would say.
Sans employment, I report myself to the Jobcentre. One of the many and varied of my new experiences and I was comforted by the design and furnishings.My mental picture of Jobcentres rests on a sketch in a 1960's comedy, so the soft chairs and PC's were a slight surprise. The service on offer was less so.
This is the moment when it should crystallise with some people (all of us who give a damn) that a con being released is in a profoundly difficult place in life. He may well have lost his family support as well as his job and home. He leaves prison with zero social capital, or any other sort of capital. If he has an address to go to, he gets -as I did - a discharge grant of GBP46. If homeless, that doubles.
This money has to cover all and any expenses. Food, clothing, rent, transport, all that life requires. It must last until either wages or benefits arrive. Which returns me to the Jobcentre...
I applies for Jobseekers Allowance weeks ago. And now I am told that it is unlikely to arrive until I have my National Insurance Number. Which I cannot get until I attend an interview to prove my identity. Which cannot take place for another few weeks. And I have no identity documents!
With friends, family and the Editor I am assured of food and a bed. I am fortunate. Many of the nearly 100,000 who pass out of the prison gates each year do not have such support and are thrown to lean on the benefits system.
And with, at most, GBP96 in their pocket which may have to last a month - and find a room for that! - then all of a sudden the reoffending rate becomes more comprehensible. For it is not what is done within prisons which has the greatest impact but what happens at the prison gate.
To be frank, if I had nothing when I left and the prospect of sod all for weeks ahead, then dusting off the Jemmy and balaclava may appear to be more by way of a sensible economic option as opposed to some personality flaw.
I have to ask. Does society have the reoffending rate it deserves?
Having been enmeshed in the most potent of bureaucracies all of my adult life, I have a profound appreciation of bureaucracy and the individuals whose collective efforts shape them. They can be scary. Bureaucracies that are intended to "help" us mere mortals in some way are perhaps the scariest of all.
Having no existence but as an occupant of a cell, a number on the Roll Board and an entry on the PNC then I would inevitably be visiting more bureaucracies In Freedom than most. And let's be perfectly clear here - I am exceptionally fortunate as ex cons go in the level of support that I have. Friends, family and The Editor all surround and support me.
Just as well. For I was discharged with the statutory £46 quid, intended to last until either a job or benefits arrived. Being one of the leper class, a job was not high on the list of probable miracles to occur.And again, I am luckier than most, with several things "in the pipeline" as media folk would say.
Sans employment, I report myself to the Jobcentre. One of the many and varied of my new experiences and I was comforted by the design and furnishings.My mental picture of Jobcentres rests on a sketch in a 1960's comedy, so the soft chairs and PC's were a slight surprise. The service on offer was less so.
This is the moment when it should crystallise with some people (all of us who give a damn) that a con being released is in a profoundly difficult place in life. He may well have lost his family support as well as his job and home. He leaves prison with zero social capital, or any other sort of capital. If he has an address to go to, he gets -as I did - a discharge grant of GBP46. If homeless, that doubles.
This money has to cover all and any expenses. Food, clothing, rent, transport, all that life requires. It must last until either wages or benefits arrive. Which returns me to the Jobcentre...
I applies for Jobseekers Allowance weeks ago. And now I am told that it is unlikely to arrive until I have my National Insurance Number. Which I cannot get until I attend an interview to prove my identity. Which cannot take place for another few weeks. And I have no identity documents!
With friends, family and the Editor I am assured of food and a bed. I am fortunate. Many of the nearly 100,000 who pass out of the prison gates each year do not have such support and are thrown to lean on the benefits system.
And with, at most, GBP96 in their pocket which may have to last a month - and find a room for that! - then all of a sudden the reoffending rate becomes more comprehensible. For it is not what is done within prisons which has the greatest impact but what happens at the prison gate.
To be frank, if I had nothing when I left and the prospect of sod all for weeks ahead, then dusting off the Jemmy and balaclava may appear to be more by way of a sensible economic option as opposed to some personality flaw.
I have to ask. Does society have the reoffending rate it deserves?
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Alienation
My 22 days in freedom, so far, have largely gone exceptionally well. Emotionally I am dealing with a range of new demands and a stream of new experiences.
Until....the other day I was sitting in one of the many enticing squares in the city of Bath, cafes on all sides, piggybacking on their WiFi. I looked around me and took a breath... It hit me like a tsunami. The contrast between this part of my life and the last 32 years suddenly became too great and I felt a profound sense of alienation.
Was this my world? I felt estranged from it, unconnected to all the other souls enjoying the space and the sun in that moment. The Editor arrived; I felt settled again.
Until....the other day I was sitting in one of the many enticing squares in the city of Bath, cafes on all sides, piggybacking on their WiFi. I looked around me and took a breath... It hit me like a tsunami. The contrast between this part of my life and the last 32 years suddenly became too great and I felt a profound sense of alienation.
Was this my world? I felt estranged from it, unconnected to all the other souls enjoying the space and the sun in that moment. The Editor arrived; I felt settled again.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
My Cell At Shepton
I don't miss it!
Saturday, September 8, 2012
The Chasm To Be Bridged
In a fit of wickedness I have joined the forums over on prisonofficer.org.uk, where prison staff feel content to bitch and moan more than the average bunch of miscontent Lifers. I thought - you nevr know - that it may be possible that they and I may possibly learn from each other.
So far it has been a profoundly depressing experience. I appreciate that staff have little conception of the lives that prisoners lead, or of the pains of imprisonment. But the gap in perceptions is truly mindboggling in its width.
Prison staff are the people cons see the most of. they control, in various ways, the quality of every cons daily life. Their attitudes and outlook are crucial in effecting the future course and decisions that prisoners make.
Faced with indifferent staff who radiate an attitude of contempt, who believe that prison is akin to Butlins, it follows that the effect staff have on the attitudes of cons is likely to be negative.
If staff are regarded as being a virus that spreads the Daily Mail mentality - coupled with the Daily Star intelligence - then the hope that prison can be anything more than human warehousing is dead in the water.
So far it has been a profoundly depressing experience. I appreciate that staff have little conception of the lives that prisoners lead, or of the pains of imprisonment. But the gap in perceptions is truly mindboggling in its width.
Prison staff are the people cons see the most of. they control, in various ways, the quality of every cons daily life. Their attitudes and outlook are crucial in effecting the future course and decisions that prisoners make.
Faced with indifferent staff who radiate an attitude of contempt, who believe that prison is akin to Butlins, it follows that the effect staff have on the attitudes of cons is likely to be negative.
If staff are regarded as being a virus that spreads the Daily Mail mentality - coupled with the Daily Star intelligence - then the hope that prison can be anything more than human warehousing is dead in the water.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Release Photo
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Who's Blogging Now?
The header of my being the first, or only, prison blogger was always a stretch. I believe that Jonathan King was the first blogger - though on a website rather than a blog as such - and there have been other prisoners who have popped up in a sporadic fashion for brief periods. Perhaps a more precise description would have been that I was the only regular prison blogger who examined the broader experience of imprisonment and not just ran a personal campaign or diary.
In those terms, I stood alone. As to the quality of these various insertions to the blogosphere, I leave that to others to judge. What concerns me now is that there is no longer a prison blogger. I am now a blogger about prison, not from it, and our polity demands that the debate is enlivened and enriched by a prisoner-blogger.
This isn't to say that it is easy, there are personal and environmental barriers to overcome. Some of these are ones that all bloggers face, such as being able to both write and then write interesting material. Still, I seem to have got away with it!
In those terms, I stood alone. As to the quality of these various insertions to the blogosphere, I leave that to others to judge. What concerns me now is that there is no longer a prison blogger. I am now a blogger about prison, not from it, and our polity demands that the debate is enlivened and enriched by a prisoner-blogger.
This isn't to say that it is easy, there are personal and environmental barriers to overcome. Some of these are ones that all bloggers face, such as being able to both write and then write interesting material. Still, I seem to have got away with it!
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Life...Don't Talk To Me About Life....
To say that I knew what my place was in the prison society is to understate the fluidity of the prisoners social structure. Broadly, in many places and for many years, my place was that of being useful to those in some dispute with our keepers - the grubby but vital end of jailhouselawyering.
This fairly constant social status is an important psychological crutch. If one knows ones place in the world, ones purpose, then there is some stability which allows for persistence and survival in the face of adversity.
And now...I find myself adrift. Where is my place in the wider society? Asking this after ten days of freedom may seem a tad premature, I confess, but it is an important point. There are ex-cons aplenty, but very few who have taken up or continued any campaigning role that they may have had behind the walls. Some are swamped by the demands of daily life, others only wish to wash the stench of prison from their lives as quickly as possible.
How large a place prison will have in either my consciousness or my life into this new future remains to be seen. But I suspect that for the foreseeable future, prison and I will remain on close terms of mutual detestation. It is the precise shape that this takes that is as yet unformed and leaves me feeling slightly unsettled.
Should I campaign openly and publicly, join Jailhouselawyer on the TV to mock Andrew Neil's hairdo? Write articles and spread them as widely as possible? Begin a reform campaign group? There are so many possibilities and none are obvious to me as yet.
The debate must continue. That the State holds so many in its dungeons must remain a source of unease on so many levels and the injection of informed comment can only turn a shooting match into a more subtle challenge. I would hope...
This fairly constant social status is an important psychological crutch. If one knows ones place in the world, ones purpose, then there is some stability which allows for persistence and survival in the face of adversity.
And now...I find myself adrift. Where is my place in the wider society? Asking this after ten days of freedom may seem a tad premature, I confess, but it is an important point. There are ex-cons aplenty, but very few who have taken up or continued any campaigning role that they may have had behind the walls. Some are swamped by the demands of daily life, others only wish to wash the stench of prison from their lives as quickly as possible.
How large a place prison will have in either my consciousness or my life into this new future remains to be seen. But I suspect that for the foreseeable future, prison and I will remain on close terms of mutual detestation. It is the precise shape that this takes that is as yet unformed and leaves me feeling slightly unsettled.
Should I campaign openly and publicly, join Jailhouselawyer on the TV to mock Andrew Neil's hairdo? Write articles and spread them as widely as possible? Begin a reform campaign group? There are so many possibilities and none are obvious to me as yet.
The debate must continue. That the State holds so many in its dungeons must remain a source of unease on so many levels and the injection of informed comment can only turn a shooting match into a more subtle challenge. I would hope...
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
The Rest of the First Day
The computer said NO at the Gate and I had to wait until it could be persuaded that I was actually being released. Finally....
Into my brother's car and off for destination southward, newly equipped with some "Treasury notes" - quaint prison service terminology for cash- and enough tobacco to make me a prison millionaire. With the Editor at work and my first probation appointment not until 3pm, I had the fleeting idea of stopping at every service station along the way to indulge in some treat or other. We settled upon a Costa Coffee place, usually one of my most frequently avoided places. I will never, ever, get used to paying over the odds for coffee! Sitting outside slurping and smoking, I noticed some guy attempting to take a photo. Paranoia kicked in - who the hell takes a pic of a Costa at a service station??? - and I spent five minutes with my hand over my face like some lunatic.
The Guardian called. Could I knock out a piece for the website, 800 words by 3pm? Yes, I said, taking a hell of a risk. The journey down South was quite short. For a while I wondered whether I should, could, stop at each service station along the way to stuff my face with a treat but decided that "home" had waited long enough for me.
Which didn't stop me and my brother stopping off to buy me a shiny new phone. I say new, I mean new to me. It had been sharing space with other people's loose change and trouser fluff for a while before it came my way, but the end result was a Blackberry nestled in my pocket. Something else to carry about with me - clothes just don't have enough pockets. And I refuse to carry a handbag.
Home. Two trips from the car, wheelbarrowing in my stuff under a blanket to hide the HMP bags from the neighbours. Then lunch under the pergola, my new favourite spot, with my brother - who had never knowingly eaten a meal composed solely of veg before - and the Editor. Her laptop sat in front of me, fork in hand, I had to mentally absorb these momentous events with hammering out the Guardian piece. Job done, and I duly received the traditional abuse from commenters.
I was home.
Into my brother's car and off for destination southward, newly equipped with some "Treasury notes" - quaint prison service terminology for cash- and enough tobacco to make me a prison millionaire. With the Editor at work and my first probation appointment not until 3pm, I had the fleeting idea of stopping at every service station along the way to indulge in some treat or other. We settled upon a Costa Coffee place, usually one of my most frequently avoided places. I will never, ever, get used to paying over the odds for coffee! Sitting outside slurping and smoking, I noticed some guy attempting to take a photo. Paranoia kicked in - who the hell takes a pic of a Costa at a service station??? - and I spent five minutes with my hand over my face like some lunatic.
The Guardian called. Could I knock out a piece for the website, 800 words by 3pm? Yes, I said, taking a hell of a risk. The journey down South was quite short. For a while I wondered whether I should, could, stop at each service station along the way to stuff my face with a treat but decided that "home" had waited long enough for me.
Which didn't stop me and my brother stopping off to buy me a shiny new phone. I say new, I mean new to me. It had been sharing space with other people's loose change and trouser fluff for a while before it came my way, but the end result was a Blackberry nestled in my pocket. Something else to carry about with me - clothes just don't have enough pockets. And I refuse to carry a handbag.
Home. Two trips from the car, wheelbarrowing in my stuff under a blanket to hide the HMP bags from the neighbours. Then lunch under the pergola, my new favourite spot, with my brother - who had never knowingly eaten a meal composed solely of veg before - and the Editor. Her laptop sat in front of me, fork in hand, I had to mentally absorb these momentous events with hammering out the Guardian piece. Job done, and I duly received the traditional abuse from commenters.
I was home.
Monday, August 27, 2012
The First Day
As incompetent as ever to the end, I knew a full 4 days before the prison actually bothered to tell me that I was going to be released on 22 August. Worse, when I was given the parole board's decision I asked just how and when I would be released? "Nothing to do with us" said the nick, leaving me to wander around with a parole answer and a befuddled mind.
It was a strange feeling to have that knowledge of a release date. So many years have been spent attempting to stay approximately sane in the face of endless vistas of incarceration that to acknowledge its end left me in a somewhat befuddled state. How did I feel? How should I feel? This was a novel experience for me in every way.
The last few days were occupied with me attempting to juggle money around in order to settle my accounts with various parties around the prison. And I almost succeeded... People - I mean outsiders - have little appreciation of the prisoner society and its many interwoven strands. The idea of economic independence and isolation may appeal but in a society where poverty and scarcity are the norm (by official diktat) then an unofficial economy flourishes of necessity. Being given a handful of days to square the many circles involved in economic and social survival helped to fill the remaining few days.
There were so many people to nod goodbye to, so many best wishes for the future exchanged. Some of these were perfunctory ("who was that bloke..?!"), some deeply sincere, and others which were sad because both of us knew that their release was distant and profoundly uncertain.
Arrangements needed to be made, practicalities attended to. Top of that list was property and travel. On being discharged, the prison coughs up a travel warrant. But with my mountain of accumulated crap and paperwork, public transport was impossible. Offers to collect me by car were made and swiftly accepted. Only with difficulty though, as I had run out of money on the prison pay phone; my request that they put a £5 of my money onto the phone was brusquely refused, as if arranging my release was a procedure I was intimately familiar with and should have foreseen. Unhelpful to the end, the prison service seemed as loathe to release me from their malign clutches as I was to remain.
Thirty six hours before I was due to leave the prison finally told me I was about to be released. After a good nights sleep, assisted by Mamba (highly recommended by the way), the final full day was occupied with "the paperchase". A sheet of paper listing various departments around the prison which I had to visit and get to sign me off. Utterly pointless, particularly the stipulation that I needed to return a pillow to Reception. As pillows are as rare as rocking horse shit, this one was a mission that I failed.
On the morning of my leaving I had helpers to cart my stuff on a trolley to Reception. People going on home leaves were dealt with first. Having been ready since 6am, I finally made a trip to the gate at after 8 - only to return briefly. My property had to be dragged down the long drive past the Gatehouse, where I received my final bollocking. My brother had parked near the Gate and was wielding his iPad to take a picture of my coming out, which is positively frowned upon. That I paused and stood still to enable this to happen blew my story of "nothing to do with me, guv" right out of the water. Having loaded up his car, the trolley had to be returned and I had to sign the last pieces of paper - my Life Licence.
The Lifer Senior Officer had me read and sign a form. It ended with "Do you have any complaints?"
Ha! "Only one page for that?" I asked.
We agreed I would cover the main issues in a book, or I'd be there forever.
It was a strange feeling to have that knowledge of a release date. So many years have been spent attempting to stay approximately sane in the face of endless vistas of incarceration that to acknowledge its end left me in a somewhat befuddled state. How did I feel? How should I feel? This was a novel experience for me in every way.
The last few days were occupied with me attempting to juggle money around in order to settle my accounts with various parties around the prison. And I almost succeeded... People - I mean outsiders - have little appreciation of the prisoner society and its many interwoven strands. The idea of economic independence and isolation may appeal but in a society where poverty and scarcity are the norm (by official diktat) then an unofficial economy flourishes of necessity. Being given a handful of days to square the many circles involved in economic and social survival helped to fill the remaining few days.
There were so many people to nod goodbye to, so many best wishes for the future exchanged. Some of these were perfunctory ("who was that bloke..?!"), some deeply sincere, and others which were sad because both of us knew that their release was distant and profoundly uncertain.
Arrangements needed to be made, practicalities attended to. Top of that list was property and travel. On being discharged, the prison coughs up a travel warrant. But with my mountain of accumulated crap and paperwork, public transport was impossible. Offers to collect me by car were made and swiftly accepted. Only with difficulty though, as I had run out of money on the prison pay phone; my request that they put a £5 of my money onto the phone was brusquely refused, as if arranging my release was a procedure I was intimately familiar with and should have foreseen. Unhelpful to the end, the prison service seemed as loathe to release me from their malign clutches as I was to remain.
Thirty six hours before I was due to leave the prison finally told me I was about to be released. After a good nights sleep, assisted by Mamba (highly recommended by the way), the final full day was occupied with "the paperchase". A sheet of paper listing various departments around the prison which I had to visit and get to sign me off. Utterly pointless, particularly the stipulation that I needed to return a pillow to Reception. As pillows are as rare as rocking horse shit, this one was a mission that I failed.
On the morning of my leaving I had helpers to cart my stuff on a trolley to Reception. People going on home leaves were dealt with first. Having been ready since 6am, I finally made a trip to the gate at after 8 - only to return briefly. My property had to be dragged down the long drive past the Gatehouse, where I received my final bollocking. My brother had parked near the Gate and was wielding his iPad to take a picture of my coming out, which is positively frowned upon. That I paused and stood still to enable this to happen blew my story of "nothing to do with me, guv" right out of the water. Having loaded up his car, the trolley had to be returned and I had to sign the last pieces of paper - my Life Licence.
The Lifer Senior Officer had me read and sign a form. It ended with "Do you have any complaints?"
Ha! "Only one page for that?" I asked.
We agreed I would cover the main issues in a book, or I'd be there forever.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Getting Connected
I am now on Facebook as, surprise, Ben Gunn, busty networking. Look me up and don't leave me disappointed when I log on tomorrow!
Eddie Murphy
A lot can happen within 48 hours. Ask Eddie Murphy. Mine has been less cinematic but equally transformative. Two days ago I was sitting in my chair at Sudbury sharing some nibbles with Stavros the Gunslinger and wondering where I could scrounge a roll-up.
Now here I am, at home, tapping away on the Editor's laptop with the Big Bang Theory on the telly - a leviathan of electro-optics. My peace is only occasionally disturbed by a cat demanding a fuss and brief forays into the garden to gulp some nicotine.
This is not like home leave. there is no ticking clock, no holiday atmosphere. This is reality, tightrope walking without the safety net. It is exilerating.
Now here I am, at home, tapping away on the Editor's laptop with the Big Bang Theory on the telly - a leviathan of electro-optics. My peace is only occasionally disturbed by a cat demanding a fuss and brief forays into the garden to gulp some nicotine.
This is not like home leave. there is no ticking clock, no holiday atmosphere. This is reality, tightrope walking without the safety net. It is exilerating.
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