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Christopher Fowler
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When I was young there used to be (and for all I know may still be) a peculiar little chapbook held together with rusted staples that listed the calendar of England, predicting what your sheep would do, what your birth sign would reveal, lighting up times, tide-tables and so on. I recall that Old Moore's Almanack was also peppered with obscure events, rituals that included the Bubble Sermon, the…
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