This morning I mused about my perfect partner: Maise Dobbs. The lady in question is merely a figment of the imagination, the protagonist character from Jacqueline Winspear's novels. I imagine her to have a lovely bottom, unsullied by the passing of child-birth, neither too big nor too small, made up of lemon drizzle cake and a spot of tea. Maise is learned in Latin, well read in philosophy and has an excellent classical education. I imagine her breasts are also neither too ample to be a hindrance, nor too small to be ashamed of, but just right. Well spoken, mild mannered with impeccable taste in automobiles (an MG) I think Maise Dobbs is my perfect partner, though she is merely a figment of an author's imagination.
I almost picked up another book of hers (Jacqueline Winspears') yesterday in a charity shop in Dorchester, but thought it wise to confine myself to the classics. Tacitus and Marcus Aurelius shall have to do.
Righty ho, I am having to get back to my assignment nursing something of a hangover. Ahh, Maise, would you were here to dress me down and tell me to stop drinking.
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