Moorhouse Inn
I am such a dreary old pillock. I do not ask for sympathy, but you really cannot expect me to pen flowing prose. Here I am only days away from the commencement of my fortieth decade and life seems so pointless and futile. If I was in Mum's shoes I'd be so bitter and resentful. How can we all come smiling out of all this. God knows. That's if God really cares. Sometimes I do wonder.
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