Hamish Ross - Writer. The life exotic.
I penned this a couple of years ago, and I believe it capture’s the true meaning of Easter. Well, captures Easter in the same manner that Henry VIII cured Anne Boleyn’s headache. So too, I have posted this around before, so some will most likely have read this before.
It was a Saturday, and I hate Saturdays’. You work towards them, and they get up and let you down. Plans stay just that on Saturdays. It was four in the afternoon, my feet were crossed on my desk, and I was down to three cigarettes. A final taunt in my soft pack of misery.
Yeah, I know. “We are the masters of our destiny.” They have been feedin’ me that rubbish since I first got caned by my primary school master when I was a brat. But the ‘Masters of Destiny’ don’t know where to place the…
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