Between a Woodbine and a hard place…

[Jewels from Page 5]

Lise, you might have worked out from the last entry, has been at a funeral.  On page five, she’s still there.

At last she stepped back from the hole of death as if frightened that it may not be satisfied with just one body.  The hole of deeeeeeeeeaaaaaaattthhhhhh!!!!  It always lightens the mood a little bit when you make a funeral sound like a ride at Alton Towers.  And oh, Julian – try ‘it might not be’…;-)

The rain had stopped pouring.  It tumbled instead.  We really are at a circus, aren’t we?  Well known for its tumbling, rain.

An irritated gravedigger coughed between a dampened Woodbine hanging from his lower lip.  Er – between a dampened Woodbine hanging from his lower lip and what?  You can’t cough between just one thing, Jules dear.  It’s the nature of the word between, you see – it rather implies two things.

The poor were always exiled to the blighted parts of a town.  They grieved and wasted in dismal harmony with the rot that ignored their pleas.  They were pleading to the rot?  What where they saying?  ‘Dear rot, please go away – won’t you go away, rot?’  Or ‘oh, rot, please spare us this dismal harmony, it’s making us grieve and waste’?  What rot.  Oh, sorry, I mean what, rot?

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