Grit takes control

Enough of this Slough of Despond.

I have marched back upstairs, snatched that disgusting acrylic jumper by the baggy neck, wrestled it to the kitchen table and cut off both its arms with a pair of five-inch scissors. There. Grit stands triumphant, splattered in fibrous black threads and declares, on behalf of Grit and all womankind, I shall not be bullied, pushed around and insulted by an old rag of a fabric whose sole pleasure in life has been to wrap itself around me like a curse.

And if anyone asks about the whereabouts of the ruddy thing, I shall blame it on February.