Photo by Robert Cudmore

It’s like we’re building a wooden bridge one plank at a time, and right now our (not so innocent) Mrs.  Blendinson is in danger of falling to her death. She may have her flaws, sure, but look into your heart. You don’t really want Mrs. Blendinson to die, do you? Well, at least not this way. If she must expire let your sentence do the dirty work. Yes, have a read of our story so far and lay down your wooden plank of words, and whatever happens our leading lady will accept the consequences. (She would prefer to live, just so you know.)

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.       

What happens next is in your hands….