And suddenly I realized that the fairy tale was not my own, it was hers. How devious can they get?
And I knew not whether to keep living in the fairy tale, knowing all the while it was someone else’s, or to break away from it, however wonderful it might be. Or to live forever as the happy unmindful character in a happy story. Yes, we must believe in the existence of that third option, for the other two are too uncomfortable. Happiness must be available in vanilla, without the gooey chocolate chips and the bitter orange peel.
And then there’s Marks and Spencer, which has removed salt from all its food, since I’m going to be weeping into it at the thought of the money you handed over for the vegetable bake.
And “The New Feminism” does not go down any better with tube passengers than “A Clockwork Orange”. I should start buying Heat magazine, same as everyone else.
And I’m so not marrying wendigo. She neither earns nor cooks. Useless.
Update: Wendigo is not amused. I didn't mean she's COMPLETELY useless. She thinks. Matrimonial proposals from men six feet tall and over are solicited. Complete list of required qualifications available on request.