Emma Lyme was a peculiar girl, watching life from a safe distance.
She didn't quite fit in. She didn't fit in the crowd.
She didn't fit through doorways, and she didn't fit in bed.
The simplest of tasks, a tricky exercise, she accepted life as difficult.
Emma Lyme was good at her job, although she grew an unjustified literary disliking of Wordsworth, Yates and Zelinski.
At 1202, on the exit of Mr Vaughn of his lunchtime tipple, Emma Lyme would steal away to Gothic castles,
deserted Treasure Islands in 18th century Paris, and occasionally, occasionally, if something really caught her eye.
At 305, on the arrival of Mrs McKinley, detaining Mr Vaughn with her daily account of Bidsey's latest world-defying canine tricks,
Emma Lyme would sneak out.
But it was only at home, within the privacy of her four walls, that Emma Lyme imagined everyone was just like her.
And point, and close, and point, and close, and plie, and up, and revolve.
Emma Lyme
Emma Lyme
Emma Lyme
Emma Lyme
Emma Lyme
Emma Lyme
Emma Lyme
Emma Lyme
And that is how Emma Lyme's story began.
Emma Lyme
Emma Lyme
Emma Lyme
