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It starts with the smell. Some thirteen year-olds sit in the quieter corners of train carriages clutching a plastic bag, waiting for a moment away from stranger's eyes when they can catch a sample of what's within: a swig of White Ace, perhaps, or a handful of stolen marker pens that will burn the nostrils then lighten the brain before sending it gently spinning.
Other thirteen year-olds, my younger self included, would cut much the same picture, checking they're truly alone before opening up the bag, prying apart the package within and then taking one big, deep breath.
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