A GoodGym report in the style of Thomas Hardy….

It was an unadorned and destiny-appointed task—a mere ten minutes’ traverse across the damp, unheeding earth of Lewisham to bear the heavy white sheets and woollen coverlets of the esteemed Mrs L. from the steam-fogged vault of the laundry back to her solitary hearth.

Our discourse turned to the immutable passage of the days and the small designs of the coming weekend; her cramped chambers were entirely dominated by great boxes of Christmas bounties, ordained to be hauled away by the carrier’s wagon on the Sabbath. Of the eve of that day, however—the Saturday—she spoke with the hesitant dimness of one who sees no certainty in the shifting fog of tomorrow.At length, I turned my back upon the threshold, flinging into the gathering gloom a parting vow to cross her path again when three more weeks had been ground away by the slow wheel of Time.