Is editing this much just tinkering? Prevarication? Are there more important things I could/should be doing, like emailing a literary agency, or cleaning the scree of toast crumbs from under the fridge? Yet here I am, drinking tea, watching the weather grow ever more foul, wondering why it takes certain agencies over a year to respond to submissions and with the smuggest, snottiest rejection yet. Definitely a keeper, one for the lavvy wall.
Lured in by an irresistible array of engineering magicals…
They get excited. They get their cameras out.
My sister is firmly of the opinion that you should have a man stripping down a car in the entrance of every shopping mall. It would keep men amused for hours enabling the women to get on with the serious business unhindered. They put bouncy castles and those big boxes full of balls and stuff for kids, though I suspect all the women who arrived with all these men are currently in the beer tent.
But some men still prefer the birds.