Fruit Baskets; a damning indictment

Before fruit baskets it was just a bunch of grapes the sick got given. It made sense that while in hospital with nothing to do they’d have plenty of time to tread grapes for wine, a drink essential to healthy wellbeing, big pans left under the bed for anytime they fancied a little squish of fruit beneath feet and between toes.

However, thanks to advances in medicine the sick are no longer as ill as they used to be, and these days can be given whole fruit baskets so their time convalescing can be spent creating not just vino but also all sorts of juices and smoothies as well.

Who knows, but at this rate it surely won’t be long before the unwell are able to operate micro breweries and small artisan patisseries while recovering too.

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Introducing Fern Stone: newest kick-ass poet warrior on the block!

While out for a scroll the other day across the groups and pages where poetry is shared, a post caught my attention.

Someone wrote of previously having dropped a poem directly to the group, only for someone else to . . . Let’s not mince words. The ‘someone’, Fern Stone, is mid-twenties and female; while the critic male and heading the wrong side of middle-aged.

Cringe worthy stereotypes abounded from the latter with unabashed aplomb.

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My Emoji: Thoughts on the Minimal Interaction of 2020 as the Year Does One

Since March I have socialised with four people; and one of those for only three hours (no doubt there are many who’ve had less than me). Interaction over the internet has become more prevalent in all aspects of life. In some respects this makes it easier; no one has to move off their butt to hang out. But lack of real contact and even seeing a face or thinking about what to wear out leaves gaping holes in a complete socialising package.

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