“Post Modern Mrs Haversham awakes from her slumber.” Dickenson Gazette 1866
It’s boxing day 1866, resistance is futile, I cannot resist all the food surrounding me. I know what I said, dainty ankles, collar bone, but the void inside me gets bigger at Christmas. It’s like a cavernous hole sucking my soul into it’s inky blackness like treacle, except I don’t like treacle except if it is mixed into a rich ginger cake.
This hole makes me ravenous.
Unseen in the background, Fate was quietly slipping lead into the boxing-glove.