July 28, 1925
The eating thing has grown into a problem, as have I. Fairies, by their very nature, are small flighty creatures that are as likely to sit on one's shoulder as wink at one across a demure duck pond. This morning I measured myself against the parental door frame and found to my horror that it only comes to my waist, rather than the other way around. Oh pish and rats with knotted tails, I appear to be a full on, up to the mark, human shaped lovely, but with wings. I am a little disturbed that I have been completely ignorant of this change, despite those side-of-the-mouth remarks that my mother makes by the lily pond. “Gosh, how your sister has grown,” being the most frequent and “she is a right little fat Friesian,” being the other when she has forgotten that I am standing there.
The rest of the process seems to have been rather sudden, well, last evening, if I am to be completely honest. And this morning I was forced to rush out and purchase a new mirror so that I could gaze at my heavenly presence the whole way up and not just to the knees. I must say, irrepressible stature aside, I am quite the Cat’s Meow now, though I suspect that the old wings might be a little disturbing in the wrong company; I am certain I am not what the flappers had in mind. Too-ra-ra as they say, and on with the job.
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