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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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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.
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