I had somewhat neglected my self-improvement plans of late, distracted by Sammy’s unfortunate accident and the events which had resulted from it.
But it was time to refocus on my goal: the musician. I indulged in the sin of pride for a moment.
My nails grow exceedingly fast, and they are strong and shiny.
I attribute this to a diet high in the requisite vitamins, minerals and fatty acids, which are obtained from my well-planned luncheon regime.
My nails are a tribute to the culinary excellence of the British high street.
Not being a vain person, I merely cut them with clippers when they grow too long to allow for comfortable data input,
and file down the resulting sharp corners so that they do not snag on fabric or scrape my skin unpleasantly when I am bathing.
So far, so perfectly adequate. My nails are always clean—clean nails, like clean shoes, are fundamental to self-respect.
Whilst I am neither stylish nor fashionable, I am always clean;
that way, at least, I can hold my head up when I take my place, however unexalted, in the world.
I headed into town during my lunch break, eating my sandwich on the way in order to save time.
On reflection, I wished that I had selected a less obtrusive filling;
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