Post Modern Mrs Haversham awakes from her slumber.” Dickenson Gazette 1866

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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.

P.G. Wodehouse


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