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Sunday, 21 August 2016

In which I'm still pissed right off...

I think I'll move...
Into the pages of a Rosamunde Pilcher book...
I'll probably turn up around chapter three carrying a smart red leather weekend bag, be wearing a silk blouse and pale pink jeans.
I'll be on holiday from my job in publishing and meet, by chance, a retired Wing Commander, who will marry me and whisk me off to a life of chintz, supper parties and sweeping lawns with no weeds in them.

Alternatively I could spend the next two weeks shoving shite down a sink plughole (call me old fashioned, but if you can poop in a sink, you could use a lavatory) and then move seamlessly into the community to do more of same, without the aid of a safety net or, indeed, a fecking holiday.

Misery reigns...

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