I did start writing this yesterday, but stopped and gave into the paracetemol driven, dehydrated hallucinations. I woke up feeling like cack, and forced myself around 9pm to produce the final 500 words of shocking cliche, probably inspired by the hours I spent watching Jeremy Kyle, and Come dine with me. And so hurrah! 50,000 words of iliterate, intolerable garble, which I will now have to wade through on my search for gold. I will also share with you some of the worst writing you will ever stumble across.
In other victorious news; Tuesday, whilst on my lovely morning walk to work, I turned a corner to find three charming boys waiting for me with a look-what-we-prepared-earlier pile of snow. The conversation which thus followed went a little like this.
Rutter: Please don't! I'm on my way to work.
Fat child: Tough!
Rutter: I'll remember this house number.
Fat child: We don't even live here!
Rutter: Yes, but they'll know who the little shits of the neighbourhood are.
Several things then happened dear reader. I realised that with my final sentence, I had officially made the transition into becoming my mother, spewing words commonly associated with the antagonised elderly. And also that I was now being chased, by the leader nonetheless, the fat one. With great cheer I announce that he could not catch me, and between the three of them, struck me once on the shoulder with a snowball. I even commentated on their effots. 'Nice one.' 'Wow, your talents astound me.'
I now realise that all my years of badminton, and my recent progress on the gym treadmil, had been preparing me for this moment. But there was only one sad thought in my mind, as I walked on in my woollen coat. And that was - How much my cag in a bag would've loved to accompany me on this adventure.
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