Three weeks after losing Mini, my column is published. From 6am, the emails start to come in. By the afternoon, there are over 500 and by Friday there are 1,500 and counting. I reply to every single one, thinking the whole time, just as I have been wishing Michael Jackson were still alive to see people dancing in cinemas, singing in Trafalgar Square, and how happy he would be, that Mini was still with me, black button nose on the edge of my laptop, so that I could read each and every one to her. That she would know how
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