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On the night in question, your correspondent was on a date – a first date, in fact – with the Sprinkler herself. I was the Sprinklee (self-appointed). Collingwood, Sprink’s neighbourhood. Deep North.

‘You’re the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met,’ she told me, repeatedly. That was something, coming from an expert in Maddawgs.

Sprink stopped outside a narrow tavern, lively, commotion seeping onto the street. ‘Let’s go in here,’ she said.  Apparently, staff from some hospital, their end-of-year do.

One demanded to know where we’d come from. Sprink told him that she was an OT. I was an anaesthetist, I said.

‘You’re such an anaesthetist,’ he said.

Now, Sprink wasn’t up for a big night. But the hospital people gave her a second wind. ‘Let us make party,’ she said. We did.

I can’t tell you more as Sprink gave me a 150-word limit.

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