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The Dartboard of Destiny
I’ll say one thing: those heady days of hedge-hopping, poetry slams and general drunken buffoonery seemed like centuries ago.
Escapism, Miss Weasley
‘I received some of your work a short while ago,’ she said, still staring at me as if I was a sea slug. ‘And I’d like you to join the Witch Weekly team.’
A Bad Feeling About This
The two of us were, pretty much, abandoned in the middle of nowhere. With everything we owned in a single suitcase. No cause for alarm.
The town was New New Elgin because Elgin and New Elgin were both already taken.
Sunday, Sunday, the perfect lazy day.
A Duck in the Pint
Even the rain in New New Elgin was weird.
The Keeper and the Seeker
I knew exactly what Euphemia Flitter wanted me to write, and I didn’t want to write it. Not in the slightest.
Anoraks and Fluttery Eyelashes
‘You’re my girl for all seasons. You even come with your own anorak and all.’
An Abundance of Tartan
Another one of those short silences passed, although, this time, it didn’t feel quite so companionable.
Living In Sin
I always got the feeling that Dad listened more than Mum did, and if I’d had to pick one of them to awkwardly bridge the topic with, it would have been him.
From the moment the owl arrived, I typed like a woman possessed.
The Tripwire of Reality
There’s something I’ve always been very good at, and it’s saying the exact opposite of what I really want to say.
The Coven (reprise)
They say that the meek shall inherit the earth. If anything, Scorpius is a walking contradiction to this statement.
That speech was the caber that broke the Highland Coo’s back.
Hangovers and Hypotheticals
It was the conversational equivalent of a runaway double decker bus travelling at full speed down a very, very steep hill, in the sense that it came out of nowhere and knocked me a little bit senseless.
Mandrakes and Post Owls
A lot of girls my age talk about hearing the pitter-pattering of tiny feet. I heard the stampeding of midget wildebeest.
(Love is) Tea and Toast
‘I just want a job where I don’t have to write zombie smut,’ I said. ‘You know, maybe something with a desk. And a kettle in the office. And a lot of juicy gossiping about colleagues. A water-cooler to gossip by. Christmas parties. A stationery cupboard. Biscuits.’
Elektra and Felix
Good evenings, like all good salads, start with a foundation of Lettuce.
Tea, Custard Creams, and a Cat
You know the zombie smut is probably getting to you when you start talking to your pet cat.
With Bells On
The rain, pattering on the windowpane, did enough talking for both of us.
Epilogue: Part One
First and foremost, a writer is a liar.
Epilogue: Part Two
You can really make metaphors for life out of everything.
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