Frogmore; The Land of Dreams

Upon passing frogmore recently the other day, I, Fred Whatmore, saw a small sign directing me to what I would later come to call Frogmore; home; the land of my dreams



The luscious green fields spread before my eyes, and fromore mausoleum doors wide open welcomed me in. . . ? I sat for a while with Willy the keeper of the Mausoleum grounds, we ate Frogmore stew and discussed the village politics, apparently Mrs Weatherby's Daughter has had a baby out of marriage and everyone is rather concerned.



This love and common knowledge of all residents of Frogmore warmed the cockels of my heart (possibly helped by the tasty stew, prepared by handsome old Willy, the generous source of all my Frogmore knowledge). There was an understanding; a loving atmosphere; a kindness seconded by no village I had ever had the fortune to run across.



On the journey home, my mind wandered back to the Frogmorian way of life. Decided, I rang my future wife with the news 'We shall raise our children in the land of Frogmore' I exclaimed joyously. 'This beautiful land, shall be claimed as our own'. I knew from that day forward that our Froglets would be raised on the green grass that only dreams can imagine.



My fiance, a woman I'm marrying out of covenience and desperation, not love, is staring passionately into my eyes as i write this, she may not say it, but I know she could never have imagined a world so beautiful, exsquisite, perfect in every way.



We have together planned a small holiday to Frogmore in the summer, so that we can lie in the hay bails and maybe I can learn to love a small village again. . .



Untill then my fellow Frogmorians. . .