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   _} 2            (  <P ALIGN="LEFT"><FONT FACE="Verdana" SIZE="11" COLOR="#000000">Beethoven left the shop with the cage, and the dog trotting at his heels; he consulted his <SBR/>list (<B>16: Franz Liszt, 1811—1886</B>) and went into a cobbler’s. ‘Are you the shoe-man?’ <SBR/>(<B>17: Robert Schumann, 1810—1856</B>) he asked the man at the counter. The man <SBR/>didn’t reply, but instead &nbsp;called into the back of the shop,‘someone about his shoe, Bert!’ <SBR/>(<B>18: Franz Schubert, 1797—1828</B>) Bert came hurrying out. ‘How can I help you, sir?’ <SBR/>he asked. ‘It’s my laces — they’re all ravelled,’ (<B>19: Maurice Ravel, 1875—1937</B>) said <SBR/>Beethoven sadly ‘what a mess I in!&apos; (<B>20: Olivier Messiaen, 1908—1992</B>) Bert tactfully <SBR/>ignored his client’s bad English, and looked at the laces. ‘You’re going to have to use the <SBR/>most art (<B>21: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, 1756—1791</B>) you have,’ said Beethoven. <SBR/>‘Hmm…’ mused Bert, ‘I think I&apos;ll have to ask my assistant. Where&apos;s he hid&apos;n? (<B>22: Franz <SBR/>Josef Haydn, 1732—1809</B>) Honestly,’ he confided in Beethoven,‘it’s impossible to get <SBR/>good service these days. ‘E’s probably out shoppin’ (<B>23: Frederic Chopin, 1810—1849</B>) <SBR/>for his scarlet tea (<B>24: Domenico Scarlatti 1685—1757; or Alessandro, <SBR/>1660—1725</B>) or something weird like that. I told him never to do that ; you can tell a <SBR/>man (<B>25: Georg Philipp Telemann, 1681—1767</B>) something till you&apos;re blue in the face <SBR/>— it won&apos;t help you.’ Beethoven sympathised. ‘Ver de (<B>26: Giuseppe Verdi, <SBR/>1813—1901</B>) blazes is the man?’ he asked. ‘These people — zey have no sense of duty-<SBR/>ugh!’ &nbsp;(<B>27: Henri Dutilleux, 1916—</B>) Just then, the assistant came running in. ‘Sorry,’ <SBR/>he gasped. ‘You’re a block (<B>28: Ernest Bloch, 1880—1959</B>)-head, that’s what you are,’ <SBR/>thundered Bert. He turned back to Beethoven. ‘I’m not really a cobbler, anyway; &nbsp;I’d <SBR/>rather be a lumberjack — or a &nbsp;purse-seller (<B>29: Henry Purcell, 1659—1695</B>), but <SBR/>there’s no money in it,’ he moaned. ‘To be frank, (<B>30: César Franck, 1822—1890</B>) my <SBR/>boys have stolen all my money — that they borrowed in (<B>31: Alexander Borodin, <SBR/>1833-1887</B>) trust; my saint sons,(<B>32: Camille Saint-Saëns, 1835—1921</B>) I call them. <SBR/>Humph.’</FONT></P>   @ PP	     h   R   f 	8Ii{6O%Lk1. J1R* zXL8&	/l0'
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