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ROSIE Rushton-Stone

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I have taken all the washing-up liquid bottles and had them refilled.  I have ventured back into the vicinity of the bar staff with whom I spent several hours ordering my drinks in various accents (Cockney being my favourite, complete with inappropriate rhyming slang), none of which were accurate in any sense of the word.  They only have to put up with such ridiculous enthusiasm a few times a year, and my birthday is always one of those.  They seemed to be genuine in having found it funny, though I can never tell for sure.  I e-mailed the rediscovered family members.  I started reading my new sushi book.  Yesterday I bought a cucumber in preparation.  I made a salad and I ordered a small wine rather than a large.  This is my new minor aspiration.  I succeeded twice.  I have not done any of my intended study and I don't want to.  I have had far more pleasure in e-mailing people I barely know about how fed up I am with my degree than I could have possibly achieved through putting the same level of effort and imagination into an assignment.  I'm ready to settle into another evening of accepting that I have failed my well hidden good intentions with my usual virtual back-hander.

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