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Each Move Must Consist Of Precisely Eight Words
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Just as it says on the tin. What happens in the game may be debated in the game: perhaps it'll be a conversation, perhaps a word-limited reprise of various games we play, or whatever.
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Meaning a small wet limp, isn't that so?
Nobody is playing AVMA. Have I upset them?
Happy New Year. Here Are Five More Words.
Ah, so you are still alive over there, Giertrud.
Anyone else alive? I'm suffering death by chocolate.
I'm alive, and undergoing death by condensed milk.
I'm alive and recovering from jet lag, slowly.
I overslept this morning. Got away with it.
Sirius was very bright over Thornton Heath tonight.
Stars over North Wessex Downs were stunning too.
And over Heijningen, but it was bloody nippy.
Surely the stars are indifferent to their audience.
Maybe so - but they look very different tonight.
Why is that? Have you been ingesting substances?
Rosie, yes, I am still alive--sometimes kicking!
Minus six at home this morning. Very invigorating.
You're made of tougher stuff, pen, warmer here.
I have single malt on my Weetabix, Softers.
What? And the sun not over the yardarm?
I think the sun has actually gone out.
Rainy Sunday. Bacon and egg sandwiches. That's all.
The Met Office are now naming Atlantic storms.
I'm naming my bad moods. This one's Aelfsige.
Rain, rain, rain. When will it ever stop?
I'm now part-owner of a 70-year old tractor.
Anything 70 years old should be scrapped forthwith.
My mother might rightly put up a fight.
They don't make them like that any more.
No, they're all diesels (diseasels, colloquially) these days.
Is it spring yet? Is it spring yet?
BOING! BOING! BOING! BOING! BOING! BOING! BOING! BOING!
Starts 1st March, pen. We shall have snow.
How prescient, Rosie. We had snow this morning.
Chicken, fish, four sides ... am so full now.
I must not indulge; I am already overweight.
But I can cook some really good food.
Oh yes, she can. I second that emotion.
I do not have my work head today.
Another Monday morning post, a month later. Pfft.
Woo, Wednesday afternoon, woo! ...woo, woo... woo... Twit.
This looks like the end for one of
the slowest games on record in the Morniverse.
Some things are really worth waiting for. Sometimes.
I think that I see what you mean.
I've got a mate who uses up-speak? Sad.
Imagine sometimes being age bracketed with millenials. Terrifying.
Less chance if you cultivate your grey hairs.
My cat was a millennial, born about 1990.
My millennial falcon was stolen by George Lucas.
Freddie Starr ate my hamster. No, wait, ummm...
It's Summer! It was Winter a moment ago.
(Raak) That's a pretty good definition of Spring.
True English people, nostalgically talking about the weather.
Nostaligic? It's happening right now! There's no waiting!
Spring again. Looks like Summer, feels like Winter.
Shurely not with the Cup Final coming up?
Summer starts on Mid-summers day. Finishes shortly afterwards.
I hope Mourinho cocks up at Man U.
I never wish ill on anyone. Except Trump.
One no trump, doubled, redoubled, went three down.
*waves tiredly from under a pile of marking*
We have had rather a good thunderstorm today.
And another one today (sic) and tomorrow's Thor's Day.
Glad to be of service, don't you know.
Too much pizza. Too much cake. Now sleepy.
Hummmph! European cup boredom has set in already.
Being of the Cambrian persuasion I profoundly disagree.
I didn't leave the house the whole weekend.
Too much pizza. Too much cake. Again? Yes!
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