... They Shoot Horses Don't They?
Bloody hell, what a depressing, no-silver-lining wee novella that is. I'm quite depressed.
In other booky news, The Wind in the Willows is 100. I used to work(ish) with a Mr Mole. A lovely bloke, quite charming on the phone. He died of cancer.
Double fuck, it's a disturbed sleep tonight then.
Tuesday, December 16
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6 comments:
100?
Onion sauce! Onion sauce!
Hang spring-cleaning!
Hope I'm not too late to wish you sweet dreams...
;o)
- Lee
Lets hope we never get a post when you are having a down day ;o)
Here's hoping your dreams where of pink fluffy clouds (malevolent mists, and planes dropping from the skies notwithstanding)
x
Lee I'm afraid - you were too late and terrible dreams were indeed had. Involving my sister, trains and horrifically horrible bath towels. It was the towels that woke me with a start, NO WAY I'd have towels that ghastly.
Roo - down days generally just produce blue posts.
Hugs for you.
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