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Sat, Apr. 14th, 2007, 02:23 am

"Hi, you've come through to Abigail. Who's calling?"
"Hi. Tom."
"Hi Tom, how are you today?"
"What do you look like?"
"Six. Foot."
"Err, tell me more about yourself. How old are you, where are you calling from?"
"Thirty. Two. Way. Els." (That's Wales, in a robot Welsh accent.)
"Errr, what would you like to talk about?"
"Mmm, I bet you've got a massive cock."
"What would you like me to do with it?"
"Sit. On. It." Hangs up. He sounded incredibly slow and gormless, oh ha ha cue Welsh joke, that I think he may have been not all there. He had one of those voices that reminds one terribly of Andy from quickly-descended-into-rubbish English sketch show "Little Britain". "Want that one. Sit on it. Yeah."

A customer put me on hold before even telling me their name. Free money, I say! Six minutes, four seconds of free money. £0.96 of free money. For someone who has less than £10 to last another six days, that's fine and dandy.

John. Everyone is called John. All men, at least. Also, they all use the phrase I've got my cock in my hand".

Fri, Apr. 13th, 2007, 12:21 am

An interesting man called Imran phoned in a whisper, informing me that he'd just shagged his wife and she'd gone to have a bath. This six foot six giant had a twelve inch willy - and a moderately peculiar request. While he was waiting for his wife to come back, he would very much appreciate it if I could rub honey all over my breasts, then lick my breasts. I dutifully put the phone on the side and stayed very quiet for a while, before picking it up claiming to hold a jar of runny honey. I proceeded to smear it liberally over my ladies' boobies, licking it off appreciatively. For anyone who's ever attempted to put their own booby in their mouth, or even if you haven't, you will probably agree that it is a monstrously difficult task. However, as long as that's what he thought I was doing, that's all that mattered.

I'm not very good at being a mistress. In fact, it's the hardest part of my job, dry throats and accidental burpring aside. So when I'd managed to bumble along for quarter of an hour with a slave, looking up various things on the internet to say at him threateningly, I told him quite curtly that I was bored and wanted him to come NOW. He did: "Maah! Maah! Maaaah! Mehmehmehmehmehmeh oooooeeuurrghh... *spooge* ... oooeeeurrgh. Ahhhh. Eurgh."

My housemate overheard this next call: A man, sounding very relaxed, informed me as soon as he rang that he had just come. Onto a stocking. A stocking that was pulled over his face. Good grief! No matter how amused R was at this, she was probably less amused to hear me shrieking another customer's name out in the throes of pleasure, as it was her boyfriend's name too.

I feel a little uncomfortable sometimes performing for friends, like I'm giving away my handjob techniques, or how I like to have sex. It's all poppycock but even so...

"What would you like me to do?"
"Start playing with your minky."
"My minky??"
Personally I prefer the term "Mimsy".

The Jesuit rang back. He 'forgot' who I was and denied we'd spoken before. After quizzing him for a while on why exactly he felt the need to write very obvious notes about who I was, he said it was in case we had a connection. I didn't believe him. He then made a big show of suddenly remembering me and asked what I liked sexually. "Well, blow jobs and doggy if you must know." "What?!" "I said," through very gritted teeth, "Blow Jobs. And. Doggy." When he started laughing, a broad Haw Haw Haw laugh, I hung up.

Three men this week so far have told me I'm too nice for phone sex. One spent over twenty minutes illuminating me of this fact. That's absolutely fine by me! Lots of money, which is sorely needed as due to the new payment schedule I'm not getting paid until the 20th. For someone who was expecting to have a paycheque today and last Friday, this could be too much. I've got under £20 now to last a week. It'll be fine but it may mean dropping out of nights out, especially if £12 is earmarked for aerobics classes.

Mon, Apr. 9th, 2007, 02:51 am
Week's Summary

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I submit to you this case. The customer in question has a fetish for courtroom lawyers. Friends across the sea, I don't know what court ceremony is like for you but over here we often get the wigs, robes, the full shebang. Not knowing what to do with a lawyer fetish, I used a lot of long words and put an even posher accent than my fake one (in real life I have a disturbing chavvy/false cockney/mockney/estuary accent, which for the past few years I've covered up with a fairly normal southern one. Unfortunately for the first couple of years it didn't work and I was often asked if were American or perhaps Australian - but never matteR). It seemed to work. He was a man being tried for arsony where nobody was hurt and it turned out he was innocent after all. He was uncommunicative, not responding at all to descriptions of stockings hidden beneath too-short court skirts or high heels. What really got him going was when I read out from a website, informing him first that it was from a website:
The combination of long words and a plummy English accent sent him wild; we finished by having frantic doggy-style sex in his flat following a champagne lunch that celebrated getting him off the hook.

When I work, I pretend to be from the village of Nympsfield, near Stroud, in Gloucestershire, in the south-west of England. Usually it's fine because if I hear a SW accent I pretend to be from Dover, Kent, in the south-east. (In reality I'm nowhere near either of those towns.) However I severely misjudged on one caller, a 22-year-old marine who fell into an armed forces job by accident and still isn't over losing his girlfriend more than one year ago. It transpired that he is from Stroud and he spent most of the call trying to figure out if he knew me in real life as our ages were so close. It went as far as him asking what my local watering-hole was. Obviously in Stroud it's the Lord John, being as it is the Wetherspoons - but I didn't say that. Conversation soon ran dry.

If anyone has seen The Smell of Reeves and Mortimer and can remember the sketches of "The Club", they may find this especially interesting. A man called from Birmingham, having just closed his own winebar/restaurant for the evening. He had a seedy voice; surely you understand what that is. "I'm counting all my money," he kept saying, "wearing my Armani suit." That doesn't do it justice, it was more of an "Arrrmarrrrni suit" honestly. He wasn't wearing any trousers but went to great length to assure me that his boxers were Paul Smith and that he had very long refined hair and refined sideburns and a refined goatee; in fact, he had once been called Johnny Depp. "Would you," I asked, "by any chance, have been dressed up as a pirate at the time?" "Of course," came the reply, "although I'm currently in my Arrrmarrrrni suit." Anyone could be likened to Johnny Depp dressed in that outfit, although nobody looks pretty in it except for he.

As Easter Sunday rolled into Easter Monday and I began to log in for work, I wondered for a while what God thought of my job. Fitting then that the first call was a very, very, very long talk with a Northern Ireland Protestant. He kept saying judgemental things then denying he was judging me and that he ought to be judged himself actually so there. When I asked why he was ringing these lines if they were so sinful, he said that yes, they were sinful - but he felt very guilty after ringing them so it didn't matter so much.

The other day I pretended to poo onto a piece of newspaper.

Tonight I fell asleep on a customer as he was describing poo (a different customer). He was very dull and kept repeating himself but as he was so quiet I ended up stopping what I was doing to tell him he was inaudible and that he wasn't enunciating enough. Even then I only got the gist from "Slide your whole hand in. Now take it out again. Now slide your whole hand in, jam it right in there. Now take it out again. Bet you've got a big wet pussy." My response to this mimsy-based accusation was to call it a "big, sloppy pussy." Sloppy. That is a new adjective in the context of my mimsy. In the end I dozed off to his mantra of "rub my/your shit into your/my face. You'd like that wouldn't you. Would you like that?" on repeat. I became conscious that I was muttering "Poo in your mouth like the shopkeeper," whatever that meant. He hung up a little while afterwards but I still ranked him as a high-earning caller.

Mon, Apr. 2nd, 2007, 05:26 am

I rather did enjoy talking to "Hoss" tonight. When I repeated his name back as "Horse" I was immediately corrected. In a way that English readers would find amusing (or anyone lucky enough to know of The Fast Show), he kept referring to the act of "making lurve to a beautiful woman". This man can keep going for 12-hour sessions! He spends two hours on every shag! He does it once in the morning! Once after a shower! Once after tea! Once at lunch! The rest? He does the rest at night!!
"My, you're quite the stallion, aren't you?"
"They don't call me Hoss for nothing," he replied smugly. "I've had one hundred and twenty-three women. None of them can keep up with me." He sounded more like a lonely, randy man pushing the boundaries of middle age to me. For all I know he was telling the truth, it just seemed unlikely. He let slip that he used Viagra and that it had received no complaints - a turn of phrase also used after a gushing "I bet you've got a massive cock!" (one of Abigail's key phrases when there's nothing I can think of to say). Needless to say, I was exquisitely pleased when he said he would gladly teach me in the ways of love.

Earlier on in the day, when I perhaps should have been at church, I was talking to a 71-year-old Kenyan who had children a decade older than me. He desperately wanted to meet up with me; first for sex. His offer then changed to "Show you the historical sights of St. Albans". Then his final plea came - "Please, I beg you. I an old man. I in need, companionship. I want it. I can pay for you, for your whole university life. Please. After this, I help you get job." He sounded very upset. He was rejected. I felt guilty.

Not as guilty as when I finally said goodbye to Suicide Man. After fisting myself (complete with "Oh my good grief, I am SO SORE") he asked to stroke my hair and keep me warm as I drifted off to sleep. Then he told me about his wife and son. The son committed suicide at the age of twenty-five. Four years later, his wife drank herself to death. That was a couple of years ago; he tried girlfriends but none of them understood. I gave him my extension number in case he was in need of a chat one grim Tuesday evening.

My last caller was a delicious-sounding 32-year-old Irish musician. He has a MySpace and everything. So readers, if an Irishman ever makes it big in the charts with a song named "Call Abigail", let me know.
"If you're down in the mouth,
Call the girl from the south." Perhaps?
"If you're down in the pits,
Go grab on her tits." I came up with that one too. I'm obviously some kind of lyrical genius, in the style of some kind of Victorian librettist.

Sun, Apr. 1st, 2007, 12:55 am

The first person to grace my hallowed lines was a quiet Irishman who was very into anal - unfortunately, his girlfriend has said they aren't allowed to do it any more because she's getting a bit sore. Poor girl.

"I'm. Good. At. Suck. Ing. Puss. Ies." Yes, you're also good at talking like a robot, dear.

It's hard to sound sexy when the caller can probably hear one's hamster gnawing loudly on the bars of their cage as much as you can.

Another customer's [edited for sleepiness] girlfriend has just been gangbanged by six black men, all of whom had cocks over 9". His house sounded a bit quiet for one that purpoted to have eight sexual beasts roaming it. Next, he's going to ask her to be tied to a table, blindfolded and fucked by loads of different men, so she doesn't know who's who... interesting fellow.

Overnight shift have come across a problem: hot chocolates made with double cream. Ninety minutes early, I bid you adieu.

Fri, Mar. 30th, 2007, 01:24 pm
This lunchtime

This afternoon I spent a long time talking to an ex-master of 12 years. He used to have eight slaves, including one lifestyle slave (one who hangs out with him on a 24hour basis). In a bizarre twist of fate, he used to live in the same town as me, only a few metres from my house. He gave me some marvellous tips for being a dom. For one, he would make a woman wear rubber knickers all night, with stinging nettles inside them. For another, he made a woman wear a miniskirt and a see-through top with no underwear and high heels. She was ordered to reach a washing-up bowl out of a car boot and urinate into it in the middle of the busy street. Then she had to carry the bowl of piss to the other end of the street and deliver it to him. What a lovely fellow! He hung up after he realised he was more than twice my age, a fact accompanied by his nervous laughter.

An Indian (judging from the accent) milkman had the potential to be a high earner but as he only wanted to talk about wankjobs from fourteen-year-old girls, I had to hang up.

There is a distinct possibility that our postman had an unusual surprise this afternoon. He was delivering flowers for R, one of my housemates. N, another housemate, answered the door for him just as I was panting and moaning, occasionally screaming such wonderful phrases as "Fuck me harder! Oh yes! Fill me with come! I'm your bitch! Et cetera! Et cetera!!".

Yesterday's best phrase was possibly "Hello Abigail. I'm feeling rather horny and I'd quite like to ejaculate. Could you help me please?" What a polite fellow.

Thu, Mar. 29th, 2007, 02:16 pm

A man in a dress really, really wanted me to fart in his mouth. Uncertain of whether or not he was being serious, I described how bloated all the energy drinks were making me and even managed to burp a couple of times. He ought to have called on Tuesday really; having spent a couple of days on the road I was working out of a car using a cordless phone. I fell alseep two hours into the shift but managed to do a blow-off so loud that it woke me up. I saw two of my friends, S and C, in the driver and passenger seat gawking at me in shock, to which I sleepily stated "That fart... was amazing." Sleep then returned.

Before falling asleep, I was in the car with T and G2 (not the Guardian supplement). They listened as I failed miserably to cope with a man wearing a chastity belt. Turns out that before Lent he drunkenly agreed to give up sex for the forty days and nights - the result was he awoke with a stonking hangover and a lump of metal around his balls and down his shaft. Stuck for a response, I laughed at him instead for roughly eight minutes. He sounded very pleased with himself but occasionally embarrassed.

Luckier than him was another caller that night. He disbelieved that I was 19, so I said as per that I could remember the Power Rangers but not Bucky O'Hare. This led to a massive discussion about 80's cartoons, with him singing various theme tunes to me. He knew all the words to Captain Planet. That went on for a while. When he asked where I was, I thought I'd be honest and say I was in a car with two other men. He didn't believe me, so I made T and G2 say "Hi". That caught his interest. When I told him G2 had buried his face in my lap (technically true, he was stifling his laughter on me) he kept saying "No way! No way is that true! Ah, you're shitting me. Are you being serious? No WAY!" Then I told him that G2 was starting to have le sex with me as T masturbated furiously in the front seat. He was full of disbelief until G2 started getting into it, growling and talking dirty as I panted and moaned. When I said that C, S and A were waiting for me inside, he got extraordinarily aroused and demanded to know my extension number. Hooray for me!


All was going fairly normally until a loudmouthed Cockney woman started shouting at him demanding a lift home. Turned out he'd been wanking in the car. He was lucky enough to get the "girlfriend" treatment, where we chew the fat afterwards and discuss nothing much in particular, while I watch the clock. Half of the 30 minute call was taken up with such chatter.


Well, that was the longest seven minutes forty-nine seconds of the night. It was a man who works for the NHS (National Health Service) who'd come back from work very late and whose wife was asleep. As you would do, he stole some of her clothes and put them on. He was wearing black heels, black stockings, a black suspender belt, a black bra, black panties and a black dress with buttons all down the front. Well, at least he was co-ordinated, unlike a few cross-dressers.


There was a caller who sounded suspiciously young and didn't know what year he was born in but when he took a tentative guess at "nineteen... ninety?" was hung up on. Most underage attempts at least know what year an eighteen-year-old is born in. Silly creature.


The Jesuit has called back. He read to me from page 41 of The Times, an article about the terrible situation in Zimbabwe. He read it to me because I'm special and 'not like the usual'. He went to see O'Leary at a talk today and said to him, to this man who has touched his heart, to this man that he wants to follow and hang around, "Do you know, last night i was on a sexual chatline and it was very explicit, you know what? The lady said she was a member of the Third Order of St. Francis!" Actually no, I am going to join it once I graduate. He looks down on me for working on a sex chatline but he doesn't understand that when a lady has bills she cannot pay, the lady must take the initiative by getting a job that involves maximum pay for minimum effort. Ironically, he's making notes on me. He said "Ah, I shall just make a note of that," at one point, then denied he was making any notes at all. After long, extended periods of silence, he said that although he could talk to me for hours, he wasn't going to because he wasn't sure what to say. He said he is grateful that I am here and that I am special and wonderful. One has to wonder, what are the chances he will call up and stay on the line for hours and hours under circumstances that mean I don't have to do anything except let the money roll in...?


Tonight I have fucked many men up the arse with my imaginary, black, 10" strap on. By the end of the shift it was really taking the piss. One man was wearing a white miniskirt - and boy, was he in a whole world of pain! He didn't even mind it when I started taking the mickey, breathily announcing "It's big, it's black and it's coming for your arse." In fact, he rather enjoyed imagining he was being rogered by this pretend dildo without any lube whatsoever. Good for him.


It was interesting to talk to a girl. That doesn't happen very often. It was much nicer than talking to a man in some respects but once the novelty wore off, it had the drawback of needing more adjectives. Women require more adjectives and adverbs. I am currently drinking coffee, for the first time ever. Red Bull can suck my balls. Sugary, sugary coffee is the way forward.


"I like a shaven cunt, Abigail." Good for you.


Abigail earned £70 this week, shame it's still not enough to pay the bills. Another job may, however, be forthcoming...

Sun, Mar. 25th, 2007, 02:03 am
Friday Night

Oddly, I had a friend (D) over last night. He said he was curious about my line of work. He quickly learned that it's a bit dull, mostly consisting of reading books and having the phone ring whenever you get to a really interesting bit in the story/conversation with said friend. To jazz things up a bit, I attempted to get him involved.

"Hullo." That was his contribution to one. The guy got really turned on however and came with exceeding rapidity. Good for him; pants for my bank balance. On another call, D dived headfirst into a pile mostly made of books, hats, a violin, jeans etc. (yes, yes, I will tidy up again soon) and started moaning wildly. On yet another call he started giving alternate answers to the questions that I was asking customers to such an extent that I no longer paid the customers any attention. D was busy making me rubbish at phone sex.

However, the crowning glory of the night was when he decided my agonised shrieks of pain at a man who wanted to brutally anally violate me were too unrealistic. He chose to stomp on my bare feet while wearing shoes, leading to an incredibly realistic "Fucking HELL you BASTARD!! Stop it RIGHT NOW! If you EVER come near me again like that I will OWN YOU!" or words to that effect.

A man who had trained for 16 years as a Jesuit scholar rang up. I put him on speakerphone and D and I listened to him as he read a Daniel O'Leary article out from the Tablet (a Catholic newspaper). It was really good. After twenty minutes of him reading it out and us two swapping notes on how it was nice and was it written by WH Auden or not, the man opened up about his sexual loneliness. He didn't want to talk about sex per se, more about Jesus. That's fine by me, that's kind of my thing. I ended up talking to him about the role of women in the Gospel of John, which was probably a response to his shock at listening to a woman preaching that was so good that it touched his heart and totally changed his mind about women preaching. We spoke for over an hour, a long, long, long hour full mostly of silence and him saying he could talk to me all night. D left after 45 minutes.

After ICSTIS kicked him off the first time, I crawled tentatively into bed. I must have taken three or four phone calls but I don't quite remember, what with falling asleep so much. The Jesuit (who never did decide to be ordained as a priest and who split with his longterm lady partner for reasons undisclosed - oh, he was also bicurious at least) it didn't matter with as so much of the conversation was silence. Skip forward a few forgotten minutes and a man was shouting at me for falling asleep. I don't remember taking the call.
"You're lying to me! You're sleeping! Wake up, you're supposed to be talking dirty and making me come!!"
"Hmrbmle, muh? Oh. Mmm. Yeah. Rrrrzzzz...."
"Wake UP! This is unacceptable!"
"Zzzz... mm muh muh muh muh... mm zzzzzzzzz."

Sorry 'mate'.

If anyone knows of a sales manager called Adam, beware; his husky tones don't make up for his speed. He destroyed my average call hold time from 45 minutes to about 30.

Thu, Mar. 22nd, 2007, 06:28 am
The Wednesday Shift - Incest and poo.

Two callers were awfully persistant tonight. The first, whom I spoke to for over an hour (earning more than £10 off!!) was called John. He sounded quite old and had a rather rich tone to his voice. I knew I was in for some high earnings when as soon as I answered he sounded shocked. "Oh! I'm terribly sorry, you've caught me in the middle of making some coffee. Excuse me. I must just go and pour it." He spent the first minute (which I'm not paid for) pouring the coffee out. Rich bugger. We spent the first hour talking about stuff; however the conversation gradually became more and more disturbing.
He told me about his school and how when it burned down, they were taught in a manor house that had towers and secret passages.
He told me about the boys that picked on him because he was effeminate and pretty (he'd played the female lead of HMS Pinafore at the tender age of 12).
He told me about his little sister protecting him from the bullies.
He told me about how his little sister used to tickle his nape and make him go mad with excitement.
He told me about how his mother was a beautiful model and how he used to hold hands with her while walking around town.
He told me about how his mum used to have to nip into alleys to adjust her suspender belt and tell him to look away but he never would - and he'd usually get a hardon from watching her - then he'd sort himself out with one hand in his pocket, the other one holding her hand.

So far, so uncomfortable.

He tried to get me to talk about kissing girls and boys aged thirteen to fourteen, which I point blank refused to do, saying I'd not been kissed until the age of eighteen. "Oh yes!" he replied. "Of course... you can say eighteen but we'll know what you really mean. Describe it to me," he went on. He was awfully fond of repeating how "In America you know, some states, they won't let you have sex until you're twenty-one. In other states, they won't let you have sex until you're eighteen. Over here of course, it's sixteen. In Holland it's twelve. In India, why, they get married at twelve!" Every time he said that little bit, he'd use exactly the same words and intonation.

I kept telling him that I wasn't allowed to talk about under eighteens (I desparately wanted to discourage his mildly incestuous talk but realised he probably wasn't aware that it was as wrong as it sounded). Instead we acted out a fantasy where he was a fashion photographer and I was his model, dressed up as a schoolgirl. He described running his hand along my slit in exquisite detail, even if his use of the phrase "sex lips" was misplaced. Sex lips? Sex lips. Oh dear. He started getting carried away, then said I looked just like a thirteen year old. I had to stop him there. It was getting too far and was becoming more than a little repulsive. He hung up soon after, presumably lost in his own peverted fantasies. Shame he was so strange; at the beginning of the phone call he was very friendly and nice and reminded me a little of G, one of my friends, an ardent Tory and Times reader. He knows who he is.

Now Jeremy, who also rang more than once tonight, had proper and legal peverted fantasies. Not really that peverted, they were all to do with watersports and shit. What started off as a blow job led to him pissing himself on the phone and describing all the sensations, which I made a mental note of for future watersports callers. I've not heard a man wet himself before. Jeremy often wears just pants in the house and pisses himself. Then he likes to shit himself and smear the shit around his cock before whacking one off. Delightful! Before I knew it, I was telling him about the club I supposedly frequent to do naughty things like squat over a glass coffee table to do a shit while men and women watch from underneath. Not to mention the number of women on whose breasts I have rubbed many a poo. Unfortunately, his phone kept running out of credit every twenty minutes or so. He loved the filthy talk so there were many exclamations of "You dirty whore! You cretin! You filthy little slut! Fucking take it!!" I ended up fucking him with a ten inch black strap-on while smearing my shit over his bollocks.

The moral of tonight is that no matter how strange the things that turn men on are, as long as they only talk about it and don't go out and force it upon people, they are no threat to society.

Plus I earned nearly £20 for four hours, most of which I spent tidying my room and sorting my chest of drawers out in.

Tue, Mar. 20th, 2007, 01:01 am

Quite a lovely man who began by telling me "Hello my name is Julian I am this tall and this thin with blue eyes and dark hair how about you?" - so he's obviously no fool to the operators who rightly think to ask these details in a long, drawn-out process. He started to tell a fantastic story which involved ripping off my blue pyjama bottoms and white top before describing sex. He was quite involved, and enthusiasm is always welcome. I greatly appreciated the thoughts and preparation he'd put into it, until the fucking.
"Beautiful description of necking... blah blah blah... harder and harder and harder and harder and harder and harder and faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and harder and harder and harder and harder and faster and faster and faster and harder and BITING YOUR TITS NOW and faster and deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper and faster and harder and faster and faster and deeper and harder and URURERMMMMMMMM.... Did you come?"
"Does any other caller make you come?"
"It's so rare, mmmmm. You're really good at this."
"I want to take you in the shower and put baby oil on you and blah blah blah... harder and harder and harder and harder and harder and harder and faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and harder and harder and harder and harder and faster and faster and faster and harder and BITING YOUR TITS NOW and faster and deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper and faster and harder and faster and faster and deeper and harder and URURERMMMMMMMM.... What's your extension number?"
"Blah blah blah."
"Did you enjoy yourself?"
"Oh yes, very much."
"How was it?"
"Amazing." Yawn.
"Right. I'll definitely ring you again then."

Also tonight so far:
"Hi, you've come through to Abigail, who's calling?"
"Hi Perry, how are you?"
BEEP... brrr... "The caller has hung up." Oh. Was it something I said?

The customer that just rang off went "Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Keep going. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Baby. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah," until I faked orgasm once my throat reached breaking point of all thirstiness from the panting. Then he hung up. Pleasant.

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