Muddy Times

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Dear diary, or journal, or whatever you want to call this.

Today has been a very pleasant day. I had the most splendid experience with the dress maker. I swear I only wanted to grab her small little pins of hell and stick them in her eyeballs a total of two times. Maybe if she didn't mumble about my wide hips and unpleasant figure under her breath then I would've been more inclined to stay still as she draped, pinned, and loosened older dresses to look fresh and stylish on my 'curvy' frame.

She even felt inclined to indulge a few tips. Do you want to hear them? Was that a yes I heard?Well, here they are.

Number one: if I tightened the stays on my corset, a hidden cage in disguise, then my food intake would be limited. It probably has something to do with the corset's ability to compress the stomach so much that just the thought of food caused nausea.

Number two: limit my sweet intake. That hoe thought I was eating sweets. No, this is my natural body and I love it. Sweets just added an extra layer of cushion. Nothing wrong with that.

And finally the last one, number three. If I wanted to catch a husband then I needed to be the ever perfect and ever docile woman. I needed to only speak when spoken to and think when it was convenient. And yes, I said catch, as in 'catching a cold." Something that's unwanted.

So, I've had a splendid morning filled with cursing and the occasional hand swat. The latter was on the seamstresses part, not mine. And then to make things a whole lot worse, I met my tutors. There were four of them in total. I don't really know what to think of them, but I'll let you guys decide.

I officially met three of them today, but the fourth, oh boy. I think you can take a wild guess on who that is.

Nobody else except the one and only lovely and stunning fiancé of Theodore, Lady Harringson.

Whelp, I'll give you guys a brief account of today and then I'm hitting the hay.

I don't think a lot of it is that interesting, but they gave me this new journal with an inkwell and one of those old fashioned pens to practice my calligraphy in, so I figured I might as well write about my little twirl through the centuries here.


"Ouch!" I snapped my eyes to the plump French woman beside me as another needle pierced through the flimsy fabric of my dress and into my calf.

This was supposed to be the best seamstress in England?

Yeah right!

She was awful.

"Sorry." Her French accent caused the word to slur as she looked up at me with her big apologetic eyes. She looked so innocent, but I knew better. A small smile curved its way onto her face, "It will not happen again." She looked back down and concentrated on her work.

Bitch, please. She was sorry? This had been the third time in the last ten minutes that she's prodded her little needles into my flesh. I'm surprised there wasn't more blood showing through the horrid orange fabric she was currently draping over me.

And this was after she tsked at me when I first walked in here.

She circled around me and in her French accent pointed out all my 'flaws.' My dark complexion, my short arms which led to calloused fingers, and don't even get me started on what she said about my waist line. Then she droned on and on about getting skinny and finding a husband.

Pft, no thank you. I like my Oreos, pizza, and ice cream.

I looked at myself in the small body mirror and thought about Madame Portenello's, the dressmaker's, face when I showed up. I was all muddy and wet from the sudden storm that swept through this morning. 

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