Doom and Gloom

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Everything starts somewhere, although many physicists disagree. But people have always been dimly aware of the problem with the start of things.They wonder aloud how the snowplough driver gets to work, or how the makers ofdictionaries look up the spelling of the words. Yet there is the constant desire to findsome point in the twisting, knotting, ravelling nets of space-time on which ametaphorical finger can be put to indicate that here, here, is the point where it allbegan.

Well, this story begins in the home of one young girl in the city of Ankh Morpork. That girl would just happen to me. I was laying in my bed, or rather my stack of stolen clothes, going through today's haul. I had at least ten kilos of stuff, but that's all it was. Stuff. It was all just useless junk, like frames and candelabra snuffs, rusted jewellery and mismatching socks. I wish I didn't have to resort to thievery, but maybe if I wasn't abandoned by my mother, I would have somewhere warm to sleep. The drain in which I usually slept was occupied by a plague of rats so I migrated here. I pulled out a pan and went to sit it on the holey table, when It slipped out of my fingers and it clanged against the cement. "OI!" Someone shouted out. Oh god.



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