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fiction by Ann Garvald
Maybe “frustration” is not the right word. “Longing” says it better. But whatever I call it, it comes up on me far too often. I’ll be looking at building plans spread over the table in my office and I’ll glance down and think how nice it would be if I was looking at a skirt, expensive hose and nice shoes instead of drab grey trousers and heavy black brogues. Or I’ll be walking down the long corridor in our building and, there being nobody around, I’ll shorten my steps, swing my hips just a little and imagine I’m wearing a trim linen beige skirt, just above the knee, a pale blue blouse, a string of pearls, earrings and a crisp matching jacket. My hair, smooth and shiny, well below my shoulders.

If only !

G. B. Shaw to William Douglas Home: "Go on writing plays, my boy. One of these days a London producer will go into his office and say to his secretary, `Is there a play from Shaw this morning?' and when she says `No,' he will say, `Well, then we'll have to start on the rubbish.' And that's your chance, my boy."