Romantic Foibles

I’ve been wasting away my time, shamefully. Dare, I admit it? Reading regency romances. There, I said it. It’s out in the open, you can laugh at me now and throw as many squishy pies as you want- I deserve it.

 

I’ve gathered during this limbo much wisdom- that virginal beauties of ethereal kind drive violent beasts of handsome heroes to passionate distraction and domesticate them with loving devotion, all the while glowing more brightly than your next-door light-house. Even with a perpetual smirk on my face, I still couldn’t put the darned books down, what vile depravity is this, pray, tell me?

 

I’ve resolved (falling much in line with the New Year lunacy) that I shall stop this pursuit of nonsense. Even though, I find lucrative prospects in the form of regency-psychotherapy- ‘The Virginal’ idea, the healer of all blighted souls, rescuer of the damned. No? I can’t complain.

 

The sands of time have just gotten in my hair and are slowly seeping into my brain to throw the wheels out of gear.