Life’s too short to be sat at home writing all the time.

Off with the old and on with the new and never a second’s thought between.

She had six months at most left to live. She had cancer, she hissed. A filthy growth eating her insides away. There was an operation, she’d been told. They took half your stomach out and fitted you up with a plastic bag. Better a semicolon than a full stop, some might say.

Life's too short to be sat at home writing all the time.

She wrote sniffing back the tears that flowed over the version of things that her unconscious insisted on sicking up.

She had six months at most left to live. She had cancer, she hissed. A filthy growth eating her insides away. There was an operation, she'd been told. They took half your stomach out and fitted you up with a plastic bag. Better a semicolon than a full stop, some might say.

Life's so simple, thought Jill, if only you can strike the right note. All it needed was a little give-and-take. She'd often said so.

She usually worked at night, claiming that the racket he made about the house distracted her during the day; she needed silence, total silence, in which to pursue her inspiration - else it fled away and left her with a splitting headache to show for it.

Jack and Jill slept, wrapped in each other's arms, untroubled by any dream in their cocoon of freshly discovered wrinkly passion.

Jack amused himself by visualising her head creaking open on hinges concealed by her tartan Alice band, and releasing all the furry folk with which she populated her tales.