For the life of me. Accordingly fixated apropos an earlier thought. The bell dangles. At which there dingles. Insufficient evidence, not for want of error.
Breadcrumbs, ants on the surface. One can feel sorry, as with slugs. Which takes me to the garden. Tidying up is the bane to chivvying on. Things to prepare. A little basket atop the dresser. Put upon. A jar of wasps on the window ledge. Jammy buggers.
Takes away. Old Park Road, Ingledew Crescent, blue moon. Suppose the dolls’ home came to good use round the children’s home. I searched for it in the Hayward – little lights in empty rooms, some in total darkness. Everyone was out.
Little makes for sentiment and what’s wrong with that? Came tumbling down. Friar Tuck and all that. Have you ever had a conversation about mangles? What fun they were.
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