Tim;
It's Sunday, and Simon is still on holiday. There's nothing that needs doing I can't cope with. Nothing. Still, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
Did I mention that Simon is on holiday? Nevermind, I shall just sit here and think deep thoughts........
It's sad when a mother has to speak the words that condemn her own son.
But I couldn't allow them to believe that I would commit murder. They'll put him away now as I should have years ago. He was always bad, and in the end he intended to tell them I killed those girls and that man.
As if I could do anything except just sit and stare--like one of his stuffed birds. Well, they know I can't move a finger. And I won't. I'll just sit here and be quiet, just in case they do suspect me.
They're probably watching me. Well, let them. Let them see what kind of person I am.
I'm not even going to swat that fly. I hope they are watching. They'll see. They'll see, and they'll know, and they'll say...'Why, she wouldn't even harm a fly!'
I am worried that when I first thought of writing this post that the title of a Gilbert O'Sulivan song popped into my head......
It's Sunday, and Simon is on holiday. Have I already said that?
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