Solo Footnote ’04

A
Frances gets told by grandma not to eat things that ought not to be eaten, not that she specifies what that is, but she is clearly stating policy. The fact that her fridge contains a crab without dead men’s fingers, a pound of mince, some taramasolata, a few pints of milk, some eggs, but where is the salad dressing kept?
Frances spends the afternoon alone in grandma’s school house, playing the piano CD and snacking on tea. The sun is out, so she perseveres with ivy removals on strangled trees that root the garden. She goes for a walk, past the cows in the park, following posts to a private sign post. She doesn’t visit the strides to say the pictures are ready for framing.
She muses on the day before, of trampolining after lunch, and the moment when a dead man stood in the hallway, during the fashion show of a few beige skirts being passed from the care of an ailing lady.
Karen Keating has died from cancer. It’s in the mail in Office Angels. Her struggle was private and unsuccessful despite her career.
Frances feels exonerated from lying about her uncle, but feels blind to the outcome.
Two blind people walk down King St arm in arm.
Jack Nicholson is still dirty and amusing.
Frances thinks about a romp on a hay bale. It’s after the party by the river and the sun beams down on hazy grasses and bare arses. Frances covers an eye alternately stringing the act of love like two woven baskets poled across shoulders.
Frances is justice. She sees Justin at the solicitors firm and wonders how they managed it.
Frances thinks she ought to be in the highlands, breathing clear resources and contributing to the art of creation. She could go to Heatherleys and spend her time painting.
Reception jobs are few and far between.
Frances is due to host a cheesey watsit party and wants to rent a mob of well wishers for her 30th birthday.
She could have an affair on the high street with denim jackets and plastic bags from Sainsbury’s.
Frances keeps buying new file pads.
She is amused by her grandma’s warning; grandma is a crook.
Frances watches the high street. Yesterday there were two men of London perceptions. The sort that say things with deliverance to passing ear shots. One says the oasis has no traffic.
Frances’ grandmother is a car. Frances fixes her rear view mirror to hide a chasing police car.
Frances constantly juggles sexual deviance. this leaves her without friends and lovers.
Last week recovered the absolute crocodile. Frances is a code breaker. She has managed to retrieve this tale without being in the arms of bed.
The big crocodile eats George.
Frances has come to terms with Australia partly because of her bar job at the puzzle.

Frances is hungry for a sandwich.
the man opposite reads a flow chart.

My physical skills turns to my mental skills on the page after.
Frances often has to decipher between wish, dread and reality.

She simulates closeness in bed with dreams and sleep.
George Best is an alcoholic, so is Larry Hagman.
Frances bends the future with procrastination.

She must not land in the wrong place.

Her feet are grounded as they peddle flotsam rescues.
Twigs are thrown from the bridge because Frances is currently occupied with eye balls and elephants.
Frances looks not a bit like David Beckham’s hooker.
Frances spends a lot of time substantiating claims of sexual intercourse.

A lot of this has been explained by the crocodile.
Frances feels relieved in the dark acts of heroism.
She reads very little, apart form the junk in the paper. She may be taken over by what she reads, as much as what she sees.
Frances occasionally feels pain in her heart but this can be at odd times, like waiting in Office Angels, wandering about in her flat or making bus journeys. Associate thoughts are busy and random. She churns passages of scaled encounters.
The bus station may be empty save from incongruate boys in shell suits. The tannoy woman may warn for unattended packages. The buses may be dirty and the suggestions of failure may be omnipotent.
Frances continues her fares in strange orbits because she cannot be saved by being conditionally proned to large houses and shooting with people that know her ambitions for being elected outside the voodoo circle and from within it.
Frances does not like organised crime.
Frances is dying to be a traitor to faithful terror.
Frances listens to pop songs all day.
It is a bit naff to think her recent spree with Comic Relief may be connected to her mother’s possible affair with her engine mender.
Frances regrets losing touch with all the bright fellows with glittering careers and holidays.
She is persistently relieved to be out of the game.
Frances mulls over all the people that knew about the crocodile, and all the ways that guilt was swapped with escape. She thinks of all the passwords she handed out, all the nanny nodes of conduct that she faithfully recited, like the cheap gags of cotton wooled locks and the purchase of loo seats, which of course meant she had to go there.
Escaping enlists the stand ins to marshal the course in jump suits.
Frances sees a Susan Hamilton advert which could advance her career on the international stage.
Frances is already a diplomat and peoples ambassador. It would be nice to be paid more than £8 an hour.
Frances postpones her affairs until she is either able or not able to ask them to a cheesey watsit party.
Frances doesn’t know if she can contain herself. She’s got weekly choir practices to consider every week.
Frances looks at the breeding chart and seems to find no sign of anything but massive seduction. She reads that Angela Jane is an only child, having heard the whispers, actually shouted.
Anne is a cow, so let her read it. She snares the unsaid to wring out stew. This means Frances thinks of the James Bond ffilm and choking powder because of the way she poisons mice because of the way of sound device. A mouse trap a gob trap, some kind of carnage, some kind of pivotal fold.
There’s probably nothing wrong with red riding hood’s lot though the wood to the cottage with a she wolf, like a ewe’s coat that’s just been eaten, so maybe LRH wants a camouflage jacket and a burger to hide her from the dangers of barking up the wrong tree.
Frances hauls in the mackerel. she is intensely physical like a lizard that changes colour with the sun.
In the library, she sits with cool stare pattering emails and surfing pages to the hot bloods of chemical waste.
Some people choose to be orphaned by alienation techniques like not sharing phone calls or private thoughts willingly.
The ring says to look ahead, like the green man signal of walk and stop. Frances nods her head in all directions, peddling so she has some brakes, riding for hooves, borrowing other people’s limbs as if she can’t see cars for herself.
Aids like traffic lights and signs that say they’re signs, when they are in fact boards, posted to deaden the worry of congestion.
Frances has two eyes. She thinks to link them by a third, as if the traffic is only highway without cause.
The woman with white hair passes the coffee shop, but in the other direction.
Frances abates her fears by consoling them to irony.
Frances talks to a man in a sandwich shop, eating cray fish and rocket. She thinks the crown prince’s secretary has copied her vocal range. He has a watch with Formula One from Bahrain which is not the bread basket of Botswana, not in Africa. Frances wishes him a nice day and considers Francesca’s invitation to digress. Frances considers stolen virginities with hot chocolate in the riverside cafe. Yesterday was considering leveretts in Soho. The animal farms St. George’s Cross. Frances romps about in the cinema but cops out on the commitment to orgy. A dog sticks to a dog, a rabbit to a rabbit. There are mules but birds only eat fish. Her mobile rings, it’s the name friend who can’t make cheesey wotsits. Frances feels sick at the thought of so much sex. She uses it to regurgitate. Blessed are the cheese makers.
Frances thinks of the kiss of death, the moment on board her granny’s sofa when cool breath played hypnotise, when the mouse stepped in to sound the trap. She smokes too much. The peerage looks on to examine cheeses, there’s brie everywhere. Frances becomes a spider. Arachnophobia serves a great dictator. Saddam is toppled in the square. A web is like cheese cloth.
Betfair is a gamble, that weirdo no longer works there.
Frances is compulsively under world.
Incy wincy spider climbing up the spout. Out comes the rain to wash poor incy, out comes the sunshine to dry up all the rain. Incy wincy spider climbs the spout again.
Spiders crawl on Frances’ cheek.
They are kisses from Wandsworth from kiss persistence. They tickle to scratch.
There are more people in the cafe. The streets were deserted. There were plagues of fly when Moses came. Flies tickle to shoo away.
Frances is reminded from the mountain tops to smoke with citronella. The midge bites to suck on blood. Frances draws cheese to fill the pores of toast. She likes jam, but apricot is too sweet.
B
I’ll have the vegetarian.
Strollers advance one another in the street. They are arm in arms with the hand bags for shopping. One sees the other, not remembered but swallowed in vision. the collect is unperturbed. To one edge is a sitter with cigarette lighters. They all know the street. Men have been digging. It’s time for sandwiches and dusk sets the filter.
Radios of sorts fill heads with chatter. One girl listens to the DJ. She sits in a thousand cafes with her news bulletins at half hour song times. Morrisette numbers condition the grievance. Teens bloom rocks of heart.
Frances is composed.
There is funk
Crocodile specialists are documentary.
She eats a fried breakfast.
Salt and pepper is distributed the world over.
Its a message that Hey, you, get off my cloud is on the radio. It means bad luck for Richard who breaks a leg when he hears it. Frances tires after this story, having retrieved the message. It’s the funniest thing about Richard who works fro London transport.
The weather is good when Thomson holiday. Its a clear message.
The group setting is family friend, colleage office and man. These are five languages. Messages of competence feed all levels. The management prioritieses despite weather and barnacle tendencies. An email states intent and waits for execution. The small hairs on Celeste’s hand fall with room temperature. She is no longer a whippet for sanctuary. Her settings are on the 15th floor of sunny aspect, tailoring nods with speedy progress. All the fat is fully paid now. The only language she is probably short of is man, but she has a car from A to B.
Frances howls with low esteem to invite the next challenge. It’s very haughty.
She sees a beautiful snail on the hexagon roof. It has feelers that wiggle.
So what if Frances made the party and saw the old man?
But so what if she saw the snail?
She covets both, but one secretly.
A snail may approve in its own way.
The man has a directory.
Frances lives for proving wrong.
Policemen are policemen.
Frances reports that her bicycle is stolen.
Frances feels that it is better to analyse the distance. Hot coals need arm chairs for gazing. Being the painting sustains incongruant stares.
Edible art, like rice paper.
News becomes an art form.
it motivates the economic aid.
Frances gets off the bus a few stops too soon. She has already asked a stupid question about the route. She continues with the goyda man, muttering on a flap seat.
Nursing sympathy can be a skill. Frances seeks approvals from the weirdy ones as well as the competents. She encourages her family to encourage her by need encouragement.
This is a job which does not bode well at work.C
The passion of ambition drives our hero among special destinations. He is conflicted by the low expectations of other people like Frances who sneer at premieres for failing their own ends.
An all possible whirl of romance cocoons the big shot into drinking, thinking, earning, joking and other addictions.
Plain advantages of suspicion, acquisition, denial and dubiousness clothe our heroin.
She has to put up with a very bum family that hide and shirk their true nature in favour of tall storeis that compress the dinner table into simple deals of ownership.
A ham bun is masticated over the innocence of pigs. Equality stretches to the table spread of unison. Glum composure dwells among non sequitors where our heroin falls neatly in line with doom’s reticence and non disclosure.
Large informations cream hearts with captive cares. True blight is sheltered under wheres of being cordial for the sake of keeping. Clustered intentions crowd the busy verge of appearance and our heroine weeps for television.

D
She wants for nothing offered, but prizes in struggled overture. Deserving is reckless from where she comes in pinched loaves and hall marked plates.
Heritage and heartiness are wary seems of common place, where language contradicts worth. Prisms confound beautiful trees for drinking rainbow. Forests are chopped down.
Fantastic streets of poverty climb through seizure. Burgled cars and hooded tops bleat radio anthems just he same as our hero hears richly stowed in his Fordish Lexus.
He is bereaved of a single diamond, one that unknowingly sparkles from a deep cave.
Most of his appeal comes from the savvy world of appliance. Everything he touches tends to work, including women. he affords emotion on a daily basis, descreetly and at length.
Our heroine manipulates the stems of tenderness in fool hardy wages of contempt.
This is not entirely her fault, but the habit is hard to kick, like cigarettes and swearing.
Personal habits are friendships.
Drugs and circumstance affect the story inasmuch as condition smiles upon a friendly dog.
Is there enough room to grow beyond limitation? Occasionally things are perfect to turn down.
It’s crucial to feel without politics.
The majesty of confinement.
A gradual path leads our heroine among the stoop jobs of paperwork that plunge souls with ink print laser jets and half hour lunches. A determined aisle of doubt impinges learning to obsolete grout by solvency.
A torrid affair of hate on all networks and timetables that gift talent and discovery to anyone really.
Just imagine a song contest in a large dome tha happens to be peopled by our hero. He spots our heroine’s ears with a sonic gadget and is smitten.
They meet outside the concert by chance, she is alone and picks her nose. He has blond hair and desert creature eyes. At once, she transforms from a sour school leaver as she laughs and cajoles to his magic. At last the feathered pair go to dinner, sauntering by Hyde park and singing duets. She dishes out shares in the future and frolicks to verbal rhyme. he is fascinated and entranced with incandescent wonder. A million passions lance the starry night.
Perhaps this is persuasion.
Doubt un tells the curious bells of miscellany. Always believe that God is good and then dazzle the wicked. She is short of one spark of a child though she has shagged generously in her time. What can love mean to an idle thought?
Past lovers don’t compare.
Excruciating works of art make Jesus a safe haven but the Dalai Lama rides a tricycle.
An English accent is what she’s after but there’s no tomorrow to keep watch. Our man wobbles in dismay at the persistence of her plan.
The plan is the kind of town where people go about in order to get on. She bulges with rage at he bottom of the pile, seething for clean clothes and teeth without cynicism. There’s a hard wearing recepticle for washing clothes.
Frances has been expelled from the court of favour due to an impetuous desire to correct fate. She sits on one man’s lap and entertains marriage as an action. She then walks out of the door and catches the bus home.
Home is anything from an honest pay cheque to Fantasia’s journey. Women are gossips, and the matter is closed. Goodbye to the telephone and hello to pastures of solid frustration.
These ordinary friends are bench marks of equation. Real penalites of iversion answer these cries.
Supposing the bishop agrees that sex is corruptive outside marriage, may nigerians stone their wives?
Frances is blind without a dick.
Monks chant in the seventh century. Maidens shall be rescued by themselves. the resolve to pattern days can be decorative. An exotic exchange extols the virtue of love.
The constant boyfriend transcends the circuit company. He swoops from executive desk tops to the cabaret.
This is not really Frances’ view.
F
The focus of lunch outwits the communal glare. Grim houses could do better with a little paint.
A day in question goes no further, it sticks to persecution. If only pleasantry watched television. Devices of free thining ply our frames to culture.
There is no institution to rescue.
Love is an interest but the source is unclear between imaginations. The eye of hope projects our soul to feats of great courage and romance.
Having to make do with ordinary things is reassuring and disappointing.
Ordinary things are souvenir careers that blanket category into mental accomplishment.
Frances has a 2 1 in the arts, she likes Gaugin but can’t paint.
Allegiance prescribes the mystery of conflict.G
Hello says the chair
Frances is not permitted to weave suspicion to the grain. If Richard is truly marvellous the underbelly is free from danger. Frances must ensure her name is vacant.
Frances finds the psychiatric ward. She won’t regret every act of nymphomania because one could be Richard.
Frances sees a co survivor of the most dangerous dinner on earth. He shrinks in his seat on the piccadilly line, averting his gaze. Frances could be misguided in feeling she was partly responsible for his rescue.
A rude fly living in Kensington abducts children and artists for pleasure. He is partly ape and wholly evil.
Frances goes home for a cigarette and a creamy yoghurt.
Frances must smile more often. Sullennes is an admission of guilt.
Two black faeces lurk behind the cooker, probably rat.
Frances listens to Capital but Richard might not.
Nine O Five is the National Television Awards part of the Year or alternatively Elizabeth on Four.
Frances notices she has a crooked nose in the changing rooms of Next.
She buys a pale blue track suit getup and some long black trousers.
Tomorrow is the charity do for Peter Pan
Surprisingly moved is the countenance. frances asked for breasts and got them. She asked for perfect happiness and moved on.
Courage to be loyal, conviction in vanity.
He shall be kept alive
Frances lives by sight and prejudice, seeing black people, seeing white people and seeing adverts for location.
She buys cut flowers and a vase.
She worries about sons and daughters.
It takes effort not to see people.
She must not see her kidnapping family. Sisters of orion’s belt sparkle. She supposes they wit to see her to share lip salve and dirty bath water.
the people she wants to see might not want to see her though some of them have been in love. She has always chosen to not want to see her family very much but seen them anyway despite these other attractions.
He sees what she chooses on the telly
these are her well wishers. they root from behind credit roles, its their job.
Frances meets up with AA Gill as he leans from a window with a broom handle. She tells him not to worry about the dyslexia but that they can’t marry. Frances is too teenage to know.
Frances watches fuzzy television with a fat man called Michael. She mends the set and he proposes.
Frances admires the fearsome Tori Amos and wonders what became of Stephanie and if they should have kept in touch as pen friends.
A musician plays the flint stones.
Frances does an episode of Buffy on her way to the Booker Prize award ceremony. She borrows Britney’s song to show down the literary world who don’t recognise her as an artist.
She doesn’t know what a siren is if its not nee naw.
Her world has no fluffy dice or omens that unclog
Frances treats people as strangers unless she has played with them, only some pass.
Frances writes a letter to the Prime Minister who sometimes nags her for passwords
She dares not to look up at the street ahead.
A man’s eyes bulge as she passes. She humbugs his fearing and not that coldly continues on.
Vapours moan as she does. She doesn’t inspire awe with cursory remarks about Weinstein in front of small children. She sits in their way having throught about moving but deciding to stay put. A small child on her right does rigid eyeballs at the thought of sitting closer.
Frances is determined not to be a pedofile but accuses many. she does this to check. She hates being checked herself and corrects her stomp or looks at people’s hats when kids go by. Sometimes its the kids hats.
Its not a good idea to inspect the rear end in the mirror.
Frances wouldn’t have known about Daniel Lubeskin if she hadn’t seen Peter Pan and gone to Canterbury
Frances walks naked into a hostage situation. She reads about it in a magazine.
Frances is beautiful and brave but she lets Francis fend for himself. He falls down the stairs and bumps his head. Frances is not a child snatcher.
this is year seven in London
Don’t swallow the gristle. Frances swallows the gristle at lunchtime.
Frances escapes the gunman and returns to the New Yorker with Francis. Frances is sent back to the UK when Frances comes to her senses with worrying about molestation and passports, not to mention Florence’s appearance and the prospect of going mad, although she is perfectly happy.
this means she will have to pass a number of obstacles from the deep while Richard and other celebrities are given to conflict over Frances’ sensibility though heroic, seemingly a waste of time.
Frances cannot keep up with herself.
this is written with hindsight.
Richard couldn’t be further from her sights as she walks past him assuming the bond moment but not registering him in good days.
Frances feels remorse about leaning on the globe all summer. She still wants answers, is this fair?
Frances was too occupied with tracking down Hollywood to appreciate the heroic boy. Heroic is the wrong word for an effortless position.
Frances is centimetres from a frustrated bum. this irritation is not progressive, there is little gush about it.
this would have spooked Frances twelve months ago.
Frances thinks about being shot at the wedding. It crops up less of the time now. What a wonderful reading, Frances reads splendidly given the chance.
there is a nativity scene beside Banham locks in High Street Kensington
Frances takes chocolate cake and tulips to the Mandarine. She leaves them on reception which apparently determines Jane’s mind to stick with the proceedings.
Who is responsible?
Bits of law, some name, merton might know, Amis always does.
Frances likes all the funny people. she is a racist. Long live the funny people. She likes people in sitcoms, no she likes people like briny Fry and his white Cambridge friend. She wants fathers of the brain that release chemicals with all their neat tricks. She doesn’t like Vegas enough to join his show because she is unable. She listens to funny people and ignores them because she has to resume ordinary life which isn’t as funny. These fast people have all the clues that frances can’t understand fully. she must equalise a secondary liking for people she doesn’t like as much and blame the funny people for all they’ve got.
She’s invited to Stuart Little’s kitchen where birds chirp and ribs squeak with innocence. She thinks its not normal that sun shines merrily with a permanence for blue sky. talking mice and gleaming clutter are the product of laughter which is frighteningly scientific. this eden is a fixed joke that Frances misunderstands for white supremacy, to see if she will fall from the cloud.
The orgy is false and must be rejected. Frances consigns her love for the screen walking past the pop up at the top of the theatre foyer stairs.
Frances has beautiful yellow roses without a sender.
There’s usually a crisis
Frances must invite French and Saunders to her birthday party
there’s a mini Barry in choir, Suzette is a mini Saunders, Mimi is a mini Thompson, Pat is a mini Laurie, Mike is a bit Barenboim, Jo’s name’s a bakery, the man in west three is a bit McEwanish, he reaches for thought and places distinction. all the minis are odeous.
Manoevrability
Frances doesn’t see how the walls dissolve. A lump of ear wax is what? She scrapes a cavity with a bobby grip, rolling the proceeds.
they’ve tried everything to reach her.
Frances wonders if it is sensible to shatter two paths. Each example undermines the other play to make conversation
One says Richard when Richard lives abroad. One says makepeace when denial is a sin. One says vocabulary to limit the dictionary. One says parable to harness the train. Evident wanderings court disaster with inexplicable routes of curious measure. Where is the hollow?
The guide drops in for toast and serving, it seems too easy. It says that smile is yours, inherited. How unfair to mistake a smirk or teeth that aren’t straight. First class passage where gulls don’t pick on bones but glide their tailed messages. Incubation for all seasoned fruit as a novelty.
Princess wakes up in seams that would flatter a wench. Some lives transpose a golden noose, hopping their grace for trolls to rub and fondle. Packets of dextrose and carob juice introduce top up fees on general food. Something goes smoothly when the bar is cold. Aspects of primulas land the ritz biscuit.
Frances won’t meet the answer except to turn away. Selfless pound of money chip down the paving stir. Leave the con for luck or bend and pick it up.
Passions for intrigue form window. Just see how fat the downs stretch. An artesian bowl scoops London with clock towers in middle churches.
It was wrong for Clapham to house a few crooks, sanding floored finery. Shoes tread the same wheels of learning. Some stop at twenty paces, on water. Seen their shores of stand and see.
There’s a Scotttish accent plan for visiting the corner shop. Tracy emerges, the affects hegati for several dogs to wag their tails. This can be seen as good.
Reasons like bunions prevent march haddock from seeing her. they peruse idle cares and leathered tongues not unlike dogs with lolling.
Menstruation and oozing take turns.
Rejecting such high society must be fair to kneel for. Frances prays on captors loot.
Frances denies ignorance to embrace it. Is it something to appreciate? the stag is further ahead in the mist.
Frances loves to search for people that aren’t met an aren’t available, they hide from her. If only she could stop the Falklands she’d explain in Dolphin and Reich about corruption and whether the Japanese ought to land. She should smoke a Havana cigar, wax those hairy legs and scoff bananas.
Jason says we shouldn’t compare but the pawns stand on flakey squares. the advance is more cigarette than jump. Inhaling drags and blowing smoke to call their bluff.
The pitch of topiary stands to wired though stretching leaves above clouds or through lawns that mow cuttings.
We must get through this!
the cloy of dangerous friends abide solemn dyes that Frances mends on a darning stool she doesn’t darn, but sews he occasional button or unpicked hem. She watches a pattern to gather wedges from mothers closed book of casual.
Nothing formal is pressed lately. It sends Frances AWOL, seconding among high seas of television, the burkhas and liposuction
Frances despises awarded new. It has not been principled that rouge is Kumar Forty Two. Instead of playing folly the producer tucks a smile to his belt and makes encouragement.
Frances despises awarded news. She has been abled from ignorance traps to death ones. That blip is an honest steeple. Frances climbs up and whirls round the weather vane sinning winds deflection as buddha keeps still
Frances goes to the Wigmore hall and manages to eat cake.
Frances lives outside her shed in the arms of Richard. Its a fresh name she wouldn’t have thought of. Only rich people to their baldness and the way they thieve her of dreams and share prices.
Rich land goes Hollywood to test Frances for squeamish and bond. Its funny there’s Clooney gifted with lap dogs. Frances doesn’t tread here but licks the odour of clear moon.
The bomb goes down a treat sliding the bounce on water.
Frances misses the Vicar of Dibley, she’s a day late. She goes down an alley so she goes home to video pastry. It switches her off and the cable of expertise drops out a page of entertainment.
Frances isn’t barbie, ken or Barbican. the later dream accompanies vice for the first lap. There’s a yellow road for them on screen which eats these watches. A swallowing tape as fresh invention then keen relation.
It may code Christmas like Eastenders for once a day
Frances thinks of her professor. the one she liked and the one that didin’t like the one she liked. Frances thinks of Diana Rigg and how Julie Walters shouldn’t be attempted. She thinks of creeping love as if the suffix is appropriate. Ivy guards the building to be ripped down to paint. Keep sticking for january is the moment. Frances cares for none of these people that she has laundered, they are all intelligent.
For their slandered part is altered. Frances is altered in bed, but not her own.
Her aunt sends ants in Spain
Frances determines the post after riddle. Among the dues the Sphinx rises. Among the sharp tooth there are tithes of blood, boiled haggis a great tradition.
Frances doesn’t need companions
She worships every slight of phrase. Didn’t they catch breath at the thought?
Blues brothers or lion king?
How can they lie?
the worm is long
Savouring retreats of punishment
But they were right in front!
Frances didn’t realise the twin set, saw mosquito.
Is it safe to catch a Paddington train?
Frances gets off adventure to slamming porus breaks
this is good earphone music
Tube fare saved, Frances opts in for another night of radio but not a bath because her hair’s clean and London water is terrible. there’s an awful lot of space from eight pm till bedtime. Drastic words on paper, filling the water filter. night out missed on the shire and in soho. Invitations bar from tomorrow’s prospet of newly weds or possible strings. How unlikely is the diggle to bound back with his tiny eyes? Some hinges expound beauty.
Frances is ready to marry.
Frances gets sacked with notice from Friday. Her contract is up, those brown shoes need resoles.
Frances goes to the Elvis cafe that Carolyn talks about.
Frances goes to the Irish hotel that Chris talks about where the wind and the rain slam the door shut for log fires inside.
Frances is careful to miss the detail. She carries on with wine instead of champagne.
She missed the bubbles
Frances stares about sorting heads into bracket pouches of cousin, fame and quirk. Its a pattern she despises though she must come to terms with similarity however curel. Frances manages to survive alone because the similar gesture shares food and alughter that aren’t dietary. Shared habits for people to cough and splutter up mistakes in horrible Victorian dramas.
Its not her problem
Frances beats doubt with further conjecture. The fire is started supposedly in hand. the flame that rips and burn that loves dance with unexpected tales. Ash grates the puddle to dry with primroses.
A cigarette leans wearily to point cancerous thought. Trucks with muddy wheels buy symmetry for turning loads.
France should spend less time in the FBI to eat chocolate and laugh at consequence. She should notice the problem of collision to bake gold.
She is turned on when fetched from misadventure, a constancy of rehab that churns collective praise to speak over.
Frances thinks on other levels. this entitles her to several lovers, a barn crushed with balding lads and curious girls
She is not sure how to exhonerate. She goes to bed early and casts each imposter into gory blame
Belief systems are the way to face. Countenance loves description. We meet in pearls upon our chest when they have swum an ocean seep. Hold the chin at water’s edge to mermaid blues and breams. Forty five’s an angle stands and soldiers are forgot.
We can’t have drinks on Friday because we’ve got to get away for the weekend.
Frances is challenged by rings of people to keep up with. Some shek knows and others she sleeps on. She is appalled at being set up though she likes to dance. She did not see their manners as advantageous when trying to prove them wrong. so wht if a bear does hide in a wood?
The heating is on indoors.
Transparent mellon shave black pips to spit, some don’t
First time round she does’nt realise. Second time round she does but sticks to norm
Frances missed the Christmas special
She fingers a tie back and hears a whistle, the fridge is on.
Frances thinks that sitting down to play the piano is bad because she can’t play. She is gifted under spotlight and hemmed all powerful. She returns to scrubbing potatoes for virtue, casting out brilliant green skins that clothe Orville.
She is not honourable in Texas
She preaches to the Israelites and chooses a ham bun
A bruised apple
she supposes the despots are interested and wants to be invited to a seminar dinner with Carbuncle and June
the chips were nice
there’s a kind of scenery that marshalls young minds of Eton. Dotted leather shoes are out.
she won’t sing with Elton like Kee Kee Dee. She heads for east Putney with breathing exercises and a woman earning narrow margins. A devotion to music is normally on half beat, pouting bip bop to shopping charms and radio crs.
A man and his boy smirk at the lights. Frances must laught at the precipice.
Frances chooses the border line to sort it out. The body is malnourished. Chips and tea, the tongue flaps a squasy passage down red lane. Reversing sickness but not jinte. Calling base happens later. Somehting colonic and sound.
Frances is in command
People with brains go everywhere, trying out tramps, inhabiting Neasden, falling among the clover and poseys of mint, they never get caught.
Frances lands in Graceland, but fears burglary on those who’ve burgled her. On occasion the fantasy pays.
She runs out of words and grits her teeth. an almighty crash of cares glean sensibility.
Frances is out to get whatever lopsided edge she can, hankering after Johnny this or job that, whirling vibes of grab and slide to dexterity
Frances rather commonly lights up when people are eating
Perhaps she will be a runner and move among the galaxy lands
Teaching’s out of the window
Perhaps Frances moves towards George Clooney in some way
she feels a bit desperate when Camilla is in her flat. She thinks death has something to do with it.
Frances should cancel the singing classes in case Ben Elton walks in
Frances needs to contribute
France is brilliant at finding work
think a cheerie thought
Frances fights china in a way that films dot rice cakes with spots of water
Frances was stupid to let on about values. Frances forgets the value of getting dressed. Say one arm in or pants afterwards, sherwang. That gets white coats to stow a biro. the value of a pale top is turgid. The friction of revulsion is paid for the lungs.
Frances was too busy to be Jesus when the time came.
She had to get dressed and walk non triumphantly. Whatever he did with breaking bread can’t be that bad, but did he earn a living?
Frances wants to be in Johnny English II.H
Frances has a mantra of uselessness.
She sits and waits for meals and entertainment.
She has a poorly paid job or is without work
she is in credit, but only just
She is short of wedding presents and owes a lot of hospitality. A decent salary would provide more meals and a busy itinerary.
Frances goes to an interview and stares out of the window looking for answers. She dismisses the death of her pony.
She stays in bed all weekend with the radio. the middle east is full of problems.
She has sex in the car park before a wedding floating into Los Angeles to meet Cilla Black. She gives a couple of plates to the bride and groom and feels disposessed of property.
Frances presumes that self depreciation earns a richer fantasy. She trades full blown conspiracy with daily survival. Its a playing term of hard to get. An intolerant view of the world justifies low status. Frances drinks coffee to watch the passers by, those she knows are busy at work.
Circumstance is a daily platform.
She refrequents old haunts of the temping circuit. Five years on tread water. She goes into analyse the macro situation. there is nothing crucial about data input, only accuracy.
Staff intermingle prospects to future’s lineage. Waysiders custom services with corporate hospitality. Sales front picture broadsheets to host style and columns for the slow moments of steady earning.
there are no poets in England
Frances is a bit disturbed by the combination of sense. She finds it odd to be understood apart from negotiation. She is faithful to the story but finds it boring.
An intercession of guilt keeps the turf sound. Airborne germs dissolve with cretinous dreams.
Frances is completely rubbish
She waits to be fantastically rescued from the wastes of days to give slip
She learns to tame the enemy. Spreadsheets bombard a stranger’s plan. Frances has unpolished skills and diverts short cuts for the long haul.
Some people don’t go through doors, their faith is virtual screening.
Frances has TV parents
She has hairy shins
Channels monitor their sound and script. Its all deliberate and subject to commission, men sell shoes for fittings. Its the right left audience. Feet perch on bar stools, curbing their hold on passing go.
Blind alleys are set with habit, every day is a clean shirt
Frances doesn’t realise jeopardy. Zombies collect on Oxford High Street. There are no prams. Tired coats trudge weary passage. Buses queue for stoppers and bleary disposition. how can ther be room for Selfridges? the tills are unmanned and shoppers grope for guided exit.
Along corridors the vestibule is action. the seige of counter price tire looks of non cognition. Articles of Shipman and Lloyd Grossman for tea, plastic spoons share the orders of meal behind encounter. there are tombs to blast in swathes of fatigue’s distrust, from the accession of goods chatter. There are mugs and apprehension to cost past mischance and rivalry.
Each cloud is button holed. Over head jets fade resistance. Unsubstantiate claims bury the rude usurper. Metallic straws suck the empty glasses. Frances is overcome now and then. She reinstates a journey’s mend. trends abscond from heaving doubt. Ungrateful questions tone marauding tales of distance. Forward is a long way, it becomes conquest.
things should be difficult to avert the next contender. There are always thieves with eyes to snatch. A polite concern should be worthy but harms the lend of beauty.
Should we be fairies?
There are homes of exact appliance.
The suit dodger layers escarpment and spreads worry for impression. The share invents incredible strain. Having forgets it with inheritance. Rains fall on chosen strands. Blocking fills the market. Cross hatchets guess the forecast.
Frances could be a weather girl
She doesn’t see Michael Fish very often. She will be left alone with un sat chairs for preening the clout of non submission
Frances takes a turn with physical biss and reaches summit. She gawps with friends in tow. They will be abandoned for collusion. Each position has a loading bay. those who are called file in with document. A british controller dusts his cap.
syndicates for illness proceed with after lives. Japanese gardens tie fronds to wishes.
Healthy livers gymn contentments of study. there is a man in every fast cycler. Baby lofts have youth’s allowance. Its the school leavers that really strike. Protective gates unman the fall.
Beer factors tune effevescence on tongues of solitude or dismay. Prism bells of jobs incarnate tow the careful thinkers.
You are grounded, yes you are.
Some things are indefinite, like the comprehension of worded passage. Nine years on is a slow walk to an answer quip.
Germination seems candid when teeth grow. Closer is the set with dreams. Carnage infiltrate bothers to hope’s cause. Its like sitting next to a party swot.
Neurosis bends the country that serves to party. This could be efficiency or woe to those without a dress.
Farming is a truthful crop until Cuthbert swaps his piles of grain. there is magic in miracle but the seedy trades of threa lie with clogged grain.
A slavering cap stares and chews out his disgust by settling for maiden cares in daughters of deep mineral seams of copper.
He spares to worsen the indigenate fusion of grease on pan. Like saving bacon. there are chinese website.
If the idea is fixed enough, let the jury be pursuaded. an enormous knackering takes place and the fools guide runs to the balloon. She goes in socks through fields of thistled grass, catching burrs for toes and heels, heels and toes.
this action is apparently intellectual.
the moving grace of limbered men that pen forms and raise hand sets. They should be reaping but that’s not a British perk
Frances is always shagged out
She challenges opportunity with shallow quarters. It is safer to paddle.
Frances is convinced by the life insurance of escaping from giving bounty, there is always ransom. Frances flops over a bale of hay with sun and sleepy overture.
the farmer needs to be shown rams at close quarter. He needs to be chauffeured through tin burns and wooded oaks. he doesn’t have access for wandering in cold blood. He sidles gently crabbing through the years. He embeds a rotary to the path of falling seed. He creeps to pace and elegance with drooled breath and gouted hip. He is partial to fixing others bait like adding salt and glueing chairs. He retraces the spirals of impeded step now that unfurled coils gradually wilt. He was not supposed to take over. After the standing fields of soaked mud, sitting down to lunch with pots of soap.
As long a Frances is a complete failure, the madman has tenure. he gradually worsens with social improvement. Frances first let on with syllabus, the charitable mind of cornered brie dishes on baguette moins cuie.
Frances has invisible friends and invisible fees. the endeavour to put a foot wrong exposes their hiding. so the visible creep comes shopping with invisible thoughts, wanting a spared list from drudge foils of dim lightning.
All parents quaver when youth is spent. their fractions are not always legal. Tender spent in youth is a tipping see saw. some get built with sludge and ram the flow to one way sits. Unpledged see saws stodge their oil on rusted bikes.
A kick debilitates
Stiletted stiles scrape the drains of lowest order. Booted permissions cram blames down altitude for level puddles that no one sees on smooth tarmac.
There used to be no reason in answering back to inform guilt questioners. Frances lives among the damned and hopes to escape Hydro Electric schemes.
Built up cities were poison with unlucky ring roads. There has been refurbishment, manias to press on go lightly on a Monday afternoon.
Horrible snobbery is a long lament.
Radio tunes park their emotinal vans at the unused disco.
People slobber for engagement with filing and diary management. Frances tools expenses with procedure. Nautical dues of scurvy bend the knees of transport. It is water to tread.
Frances posts off lost property. she sends a valuable ring to a movie star. She often does things the wrong order. This reshuffles danger and chance.
She eats the same thing as a waitress
She is a barmaid, always a queen
the rain spits down in a joint with perspex glass. Its not real crisps like country life or veggie burger but it makes do with location. there are no threatning inmates like the usual Irish pub of seventies.
Frances feels sick and is always dying. She jostles breath with fags and pleas to excuse.
the version ovees introduction. It isn’t sustained with cheese and onion
She watches golf by satellite. It isn’t her sport. She swings from hole to hole, bailing putts or scanning for rabbits.
There’s a hilarious line in Balzac, the pioneer for ambulance men. Women raise brollies, luminous coats of Tesco’s bags. One woman wears it on her head. She can’t feel but bad or disregarding.
The library may shut at six o’clock
Frances may wander round Hammersmith because it is undone to do, until she does it for years. It wouldn’t be her idea of freedom but neither would following suit. She inspects the bricks and feeds on disarray matching public policy with indignance to degredation. She becomes both with a flakey scalp and undisclosed strategy.
She sings A Child of Our Time, the spring concert and has a furious desire to be healed from a contract cancer.
She holds back reserves of ulteriors, begging the question of affirmation
Did you watch the National?
Frances asks the temp in waiting, an American who says no and has an unbearable suppresed genius voice, Johnny Vegas doesn’t hold the reins.
Dip thongs of nonchalance are better than crevices. Frances thinks she would cry for a year with ‘flu. Staving off the better hand is closer all the time.
Frances drinks in a posh wedding with Jimmy Tarbuck weeping to compensate.
Emotional stools dot the bar’s indifference. Some people get eliminated. Constance Spry has cabbages in her vegetable patch. Awnings of crisp foils shelter the lettuces. Frances must make do with serving her own wealth.
Pasta salads and primrose oils on wooden ledges.
Frances will not agree to have dinner on the barge. She skirts inquisition to those in her mind. There are centuries of long debate in harbour.
The Beatles have their museum shop in Liverpool
The underlines in red
In order to pass the composers, Frances must invite them in. All kinds of correspondence twill their hairs. There are seedy pros with licensing, conglomerate loops of enticement, marshall bills of tolerant measure, greedy troops of acceptance and of course, pills.

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