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That was the last time we saw the Banksys.About four years later, my mum got a phonecall from a man at a Sunday newspaper. Unsurprisingly, said paper has a crack team of reporters whose job it is to unmask the guy, which is merely proof, if proof were needed, that NCTJs are bullshit. The guy quizzed my mum on the phone for about 20 minutes, patronising the hell out of her, asking her to "pop on Google" and "have a peep at the picture of [------]" before explaining that the facts had led him to believe the man was Banksy, which he backed up pretty effectively with a series of un-quashable facts.Luckily, what my mum lacks in animal welfare she makes up for in nous and she told him very little. Instead, she put the phone down and wrote a letter to Mrs Banksy who was, as she wrote back, pretty grateful. Then my mum rang the farmer up the road who used to help with the sheep, and occasionally slaughter a lamb when things were tight at Casa del B, who said they knew all along who he was. Because he, like four out of five people in the local area, had an inexplicable urge to protect the guy. The next thing we knew, Mr and Mrs Banksy had vanished. I say the last bit like I was privy to it, but the truth is, my mum didn't tell me for months because I was a journalist and there is evidently no trust like that betwixt a mother and her youngest child.Mr Banksy wasn't remarkable, except that he was tall and wearing so much black it made your eyes yawn. He also had a baseball cap pulled down low over his face.
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