Chapter Seven
Chubby, a Womanly Butcher
Beware of what you write; it may come back miss-spelled.
That night, as I sat alone on our white couch, I thought about the hair of the dog or chocolate, but the shop was closed, and Rodger’s homebrew was hidden, locked and accounted for, probably somewhere in the shed. So instead, to revel in misery I flicked over the Fyne News like a gull flicking over debris with only a herbal to console me. I was halfway through choking down a cranberry tea when in walked Kay and Sheryl with a few of Steven’s homemade chocolate slices. They had decided to cheer me up. The Fyne News had a full two-page spread dedicated to a look back at some of those fantastic Zumba days, as well as their Gala day debut, and according to Kay, they knew I would be torturing myse
