I’m in love with a dead man.
Head over heels, lindy-hoppin’, hells-a-poppin’, TomKat-couch-jumpin’ in love. With a dead man. I think about Him and my heart swoons. 314 more words
Dave Myers’ hair isn’t the only tragedy of Saturday nights.
I bumped into a fellow widow in Sainsbury’s earlier (we get around, us widows) and we were discussing one of this blog’s favourite subjects – the tyranny of the weekend. 252 more words
Steve Wright. Sunday. Love Songs.
Individually, all concepts apt to give this particular widow’s arse a nippy taste.*
Sunday because it’s part of the Weekend, and that is when the law states that families must Do Things Together, and parade it beneath a snivelling widow’s nose. 301 more words