back Sara-Ellen Petersen, Beryl.

How did we get this far? I mean we haven’t done it yet. But I can almost taste it. I dream about it you know. Every night and day dream too. It’s delicious.

All these years we known each other, who’d have thought we’d end up doing this. Slowly, slowly we’re getting closer. The days fly by whilst I’m thinking, calculating, wanting, desiring.

It’s changed me this, he’s noticed. Do you know what happen the day before yesterday? I told him to iron his own shirt and if he complained again, he’d be ironing his own shirts for eternity. He stood there, motionless, like statue, but less attractive. I’ve never stood up to him in life before. 35 years of yes dear, no dear. Well this egg has hatched and I’m not a chicken.

This morning, 7 o’clock it was, brought me a cuppa in bed. He’s never done that before. Show’s I’ve un-nerved him. He knows something is going on. Probably thinks it’s the menopause, not something of this magnitude.

It’s the act, the action that I want. To do some thing truly extraordinary, it makes me feel alive. It makes me feel like I am actually breathing, living a life. Who’d have thought Beryl Crockham, bland, brainless and boring of Berkshire would be masterminding something as outrageously criminal as this.

But what do we do when we’ve done? We’re about to go beyond our wildest dreams and back again but it can’t go further than this room. It’s not like we can advertise it in the Herald is it! Shame really, but I can live with that, knowing we are, I am, extraordinary. Even if no one else does. I’ll know.



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