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She has long been under the impression that I dress like a middle-aged woman and need to stop.
So that's a resounding no to the Museum of 5th Century Magical Artefacts, then.
“Pump it, ladies! Feel the burn in your arms – no pain, no gain, remember!” Easy for you to say, my shattered brain wheezes angrily at the screen.
"Get rid of the dragon wannabee and I will."
"The ceiling is a mixture; little known bands, you know? The Potion Makers, Crash, Stranded in the Desert with Nothing but a Toothbrush - all those kind."
"Do you think they took anything? We can fix anything that's broken with magic, but if they've taken something..."
"And what if someone leaps out and attacks you, huh? Are your 'not too expensive' shoes going to stab them in the ankle and save you?"
She fills three cups with a large teaspoon of coffee granules – I hold back the urge to retch – and then tops them off with dried UHT milk and a sweetener. When the kettle boils, she tops off all the mugs and then hands one to me. I try not to gag over the thought of drinking it.
Is hell a sweaword? Don't tell my mother, please.
I gain weight every time her guy splits.
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