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‘The poetry of prose is something to consider as a limitless form,’ — A dream I dreamt.

You will decide to knock on her door the day you turn twenty-one. It will be late at night, or early morning, and you will knock three times. See the door move open along its orbit, just enough to see a black parting. Finger, finger, then a third, poked through the gap, wrapped around the edge of the door. Liftliftlift, then taptaptap, the fingers will dance and you will know the beat and your own fingers will patter against the side of your thighs along to it.

Tischa May was a lady who sat like a lady. At this very moment, she was sitting with her back of the straightest order, more upright than even the walls of the room. Her bottom did not touch the back of the lounge chair on which she sat, so that it rested just shy of the edge of it, just shy of falling straight off it. If someone pulled that lounging chair away from Tischa May’s bottom, she could-not would-not topple onto the floor space. …

I did it, people! Look no further, the cookies need no longer be paid for. Now, I will never deign to recreate Crème cookies, because I refuse to deny myself gorging on those fat gooey messes (plus, are they cookies? Cookie dough? Cookie cake?). However, I confidently say, prepared to laugh at any litigation thrown my way as a result, that these here will save your cookie cravings forevermore.

A week off has its merits. One can spend even more time speaking to friends. Rewatching those old favourites that treated you so well. Sunbathe. My week off came as somewhat of a forced injunction; a migraine can do that. The migraine I caught (I know they aren’t contagious but let me be dramatic), was one of those migraines that screams to remind you that you’ve never, in fact, had a migraine before. Apparently, headaches can be really bad. Migraines? Oh, they are so much worse. So yes, a week off from life can be scintillating, but the first three…

I thought I was going to forget to post this recipe as promised in the ‘The Happiness Clause,’ so I set an alarm for three minutes after publishing it.

If any of you lot are even a little like me, you’ve likely been through at least three stages of Lockdown Appreciation. The first might have been gratitude — you’ve just been given cart-blanche to wear whatever, eat whenever, ignore whoever, and all from the comfort of your own little cubby spaces. The second wave was perhaps a little more active; a week of indulgence and it dawns that denial is getting you nowhere (pun intended) and a fiery spurt of productivity entered your days. You started new projects, picked up new hobbies or returned to long-forgotten ones — maybe…

Francesca Alster

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