She knows she appears out to lunch

However, she still chooses to speak with her tongue piled up with turkey.

To speak with any other sort of tongue would not be good practise


She enjoys gathering wool indoors enough to have found out there is something behind the fibre she yarns  that enables her to succumb to the counting of sheep after dark.

Her lamb heart was born in pink salt lakes that have dyed the very fabric of the rat race she seems to exist with.

Others find it hard to see the worth in waiting for the cows to come home

She does not

Nor does she hide her interest in a mid day meal.

She will always decline an offer of dessert,

Even when asked with a pleasant smile.

She’s firm about not wanting any unfamiliar tastes in her mouth.



She mostly chews the chud of what a lot of locals have been known to call Greek,

they stumble when having to devour the bitter, nutritious or not, it remains an unfavoured diet.



Her time is mostly spent in what gives the impression of being nothing more than a brown study. This is where she takes delight in brushing her fingers across some old chestnuts and a small tale about a fish that sits neatly under the desk. But more than this, her heart gets to rest upon the sight of her well made peacock

He rarely fans his heavy wings, his poise alone holds ample power, it convinces her of her own shyness.



I can only twig it’s her lily like liver  that makes her feel

She should not pay any attention to the complimentary piece of cake that sits right next to her, silently