This is me with my best friend.
Her name is Mary.
It's a good thing you can tell us apart so easily,
lots of Americans can't say "Mary", "Merry" and "Marry" so they
sound different, according to Little Dan and his dictionary. Poor
things!
Dear Diary,
This is me with my best friend.
Her name is Mary.
It's a good thing you can tell us apart so easily,
lots of Americans can't say "Mary", "Merry" and "Marry" so they
sound different, according to Little Dan and his dictionary. Poor
things!
Air-knee-whey, Mary lives in a place called "next door", which seems a long way away, and I just hate it when she has to go home. Mum says it was a record meltdown when she got taken away yesterday. I felt so bad and I did not know how to make them understand! I was just lost for words, I don't know what came over me, I simply had to scream.
On a lighter note, Dad and I have been trying to blow the gopher
up, or something like that. I have to evacuate the area after the
excavation, and he and Mum light a fuse and shove this stick of
stuff like gelignite (it does not quite smell the same, so I
know it isn't plain gelly) down his hole.
We haven't got him yet. That bastard is Dr Lucky!
I reckon we should go for the Civil War Cannon in the Garden Shed...
or is that another game?
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