Ness (cryforthemoon) wrote,

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"In the English countryside, many prostitutes decorate their rooms with festive gourds."

Isn't it fun when, after a night of feeling ill and having an hour-long panic attack, you eventually get to sleep and wake up a few hours later choking on your own throat? Heaven's sake...

Anyhoo, dad's feeling a lot better than yesterday, which is good, and I'll hopefully have a better day tomorrow. The laws of physics dictate it, I think - all I've done today is cry and eat noodles (not at the same time, of course).

Anyhoo, before I go completely morbid (I don't know which is worse around this time of the month - the abdomen-clawing pain or the depression that precedes said pain), have some Spi-i-ike Milligna.

We were ordered to destroy the weapons. We had a solemn funeral procession. They would have to burn in warrior's graves. These turned out to be the disused rubbish tip at the bottom of a gently sloping hill. Rubbish was dumped by trucks via a small gauge railway. Filling the truck with clubs, we soaked them in petrol and set them ablaze. Giving the truck a start we jumped on, Edgington in front, holding on with his arms stretched backwards, looking like a ship's figure head. The truck gathered momentum, flames built up, we were gathering speed and singing "Round and round went the bloody great wheel", when suddenly it occurred to me there was no method of braking. As we careered towards a mountain of old tins, crying with laughter, I shouted, "Jump for it". We all leaped clear, save Edgington, who seemed transfixed. At the very last minute he let out a strangulated castrati scream and hurled himself sideways as the blazing truck buried itself into the mountain of tins with an ear splitting crash. It was a fitting Viking end for the Sacred Clubs. Occasions of insanity such as this stopped us all going mad.
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