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Fields of Rape

May 2, 2011

Better than the name suggests. Or worse, if you're that way inclined.

And so, it is over. For the briefest of moments the doors were open and we were a part of something huge. We glimpsed a world of wonders- a bride in pretty, if unsurprising, lace sleeves; a bridesmaid upping the slag factor to outshine her sister; a mother-of-the-bride stealing the moniker ‘the next Diana’ from her daughter. But now we are shut out. No more will we share in the world of a woman whose fat knuckles are impervious to four months of bulimia. The bunting, tattered, fell to the ground and the world faded to sepia. RoT is a part of this. RoT has lived the Royal Wedding through its every review, and now what? More reviews of toothbrushes? The resurrection of Envelope of the Week? Slumped on a train in a grayscale depression, RoT sped through the English countryside, staring blankly out the window at hedges, litter-strewn banks and back gardens with inexplicably oversized trampolines. But then the monotony broke. There was sky, hazily swirling in vortex from a dying sun, which shot out its final rays in blazing, defiant orange. And there was yellow. Field upon field upon field of yellow, unspoiled and dazzling and hopeful. And RoT smiled, because everything would be a-okay.

Verdict: when Kate Middleton is feeling down about her fat knuckles – as well she should – she need only glance upon a field of blooming Rape to remember that the world is bigger than her.

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