permanently pressed repressed and depressed
I went downstairs with my shawl and a copy of Ben Franklin's 'Almanacs' to reclaim my chair in front of the fire. A sharp wind blew the dusty snow outside, even the floors were cold, but my toes stayed toasty warm. I begin to think that this chair has a sleeping spell built into it, when I hear the gentlemen roaring at the other side of the house... Poker Night.
Owen was up early, and gone to town, but I felt a warm kiss to my brow before he left, and the warm blanket I was missing was relain, my comfort restored... I try not to interfere with his business, but I wonder what has enticed him to the cold and snow. Christmas, perhaps...
Last edited by wylde on Thu Nov 29, 2007 11:29 pm, edited 1 time in total.