The Whiching Hour.

I've often been fascinated by a coven of scintillating witches who are scattered about the town, appearing fleetingly here and there, but always clustering and cackling together whenever they meet.
I expect they were up to all of that on Sunday, for the new Moon. Preparing for the wan Moon (thank God they didn't call the thing Ker, eh), which will brighten over the next fortnight and stimulate their pussies into familiarity, or something like that.
(If you, like I, believe that familiarity breeds contempt, then do look out for a fair few frustrated pussies in and around Ramsgate, over the next couple of weeks!)

Though I can only guess, as I spent my whole day in the bedroom/toilet dying from a vitamin C overdose.

Anyhow, as a born-again mingette, dedicated to the groove, as it were, that fascination has developed into something more fundamental.
Well, mental, at least, as a good deal of these broomstick jockeys are really quite attractive women.
So I've found myself vetting these witches (I'd love to hear a German say that) to determine which witch could be my bitch.
Come on now, a bunch of women who never mix business with men? If most of them aren't suffering with 'beaver fever', then I don't know who would be!

It's gotta be worth a go, just for the crack.