My Amazon Author Page

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"A Scottish Wind in the Willows on high end skunk."

"I enjoy Kate's stories..."
"A fun and spooky read..."

"The characters are so involving and
loveable that you do want them to really exist. It does read like you've
stumbled across someone's long lost diary from and alternate timeline/universe.
I quickly got into the story and loved every second of reading it...
total gem of a read by an author who deserves a lot more recognition."


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Saturday, 9 April 2016

Food of Life

And so we beat on - boats against the current...or is it currant? I don't like fruit
Remember when you could survive on pot noodles, Supernoodles, Vimto and crisps without worrying about the consequences - i.e. indigestion, diabetes, malnutrition, high blood pressure and possible very early death?  A whole bag of smokey bacon crisps crammed on to a buttered roll and rammed into your face washed down with a bottle of orangina.  That would do you all day.  Then for tea you might have steak McCoy's - a special thing.  You felt like you were eating real steak. You really did. Curry flavoured pot noodles were exotic - like going out to a restaurant, or abroad on holiday.  And Supernoodles - ah well. They required actual cooking, so were rarely used.  But you liked them when you had them.  You thrived on it all!  Thrived!   Or is it 'throve'. I'm not sure.
Remember when you could smoke with abandon, inhaling the noxious, powerful fumes until said noxious, powerful fumes reached the tiniest corner of your tiniest, pinkest, most delicate alveoli (look it up if you don't know) and coated their tiny delicate pinkness with thick tarry residue?  Nobody minded about the smell and the racking cough because everyone smelled and coughed like that.  Everyone!  Remember when you could drink nine pints after work, eat three kebabs and go home and sleep like a baby, waking up fresh next morning ready for your day?  You picked the lettuce out of your hair and ate your breakfast of pickled onion Monster Munch on the bus to work, and had a mug of instant Maxwell House and a stale custard cream when you got there.
Somebody's life - not mine.  Honestly.

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