Christmas Jumper Quotes

The body tries to stop the mind from killing itself, no matter the cost. It is only the lack of strength, the fatigue that lets the jumpers fall at last.

He'd probably faint at the sight of their hoards of undies, make-up, and never-put-away tampon boxes.

Merry Christmas," said George. "Don't go downstairs for a bit." "Why not?" said Ron. "Mum's crying again," said Fred heavily. "Percy sent back his Christmas jumper." [I guess that's a sweater, though my jury is still out on it until I get a future confirmation.] "Without a not," added George. "Hasn't asked how Dad is or visit him [in the hospital] or anything..." "We tried to comfort her," said Fred, moving around the bed to look at Harry's portrait. "Told her Percy's nothing but a humongous pile of rat droppings--" "--didn't work," said George, helping himself to a Chocolate Frog. "So Lupin took over. Best let him cheer her up before we go down for breakfast, I reckon.

It was only a searing pain running from her coccyx that was giving her any trouble. She'd landed on her arse - which, thankfully, had enough padding on it to have saved her from anything more serious. Three cheers for fat-bottomed girls.

You'd have looked perfect to me if you'd walked into the room wearing a clown outfit, with a big red nose and huge shoes,' said Rob, giving her a smile that would have made every woman in a three-mile radius melt a little inside. 'Even if you'd sprayed my face with water from a fake flower.

As she fought the slick roads, her phone rang. She cursed herself for not plugging it into her car charger, at least then she could’ve answered through the hands free device. The next bend was coming up, she knew from her daily drives up and down. Her knuckles were white from the death grip she had on the steering wheel.

Because there’s a silent, shrugging, stoical acceptance of all the things in the world we can never be part of: shorts, swimming pools, strappy dresses, country walks, roller-skating, ra-ra skirts, vest tops, high heels, rope climbing, sitting on a high stool, walking past building sites, flirting, being kissed, feeling confident. And ever losing weight, ever. The idea of suggesting we don’t have to be fat –that things could change –is the most distant and alien prospect of all. We’re fat now and we’ll be fat forever and we must never, ever mention it, and that is the end of it. It’s like Harry Potter’s Sorting Hat. We were pulled from the hat marked ‘Fat’ and that is what we must now remain, until we die. Fat is our race. Our species. Our mode. As a result, there is very little of the outside world –and very little of the year –we can enjoy. Summer is sweaty under self-conscious layers. On stormy days, wind flattens skirts against thighs, and alarms both us and, we think, onlookers and passers-by. Winter is the only time we feel truly comfortable: covered head to toe in jumpers, coats, boots and hat. I develop a crush on Father Christmas. If I married him, not only would I be expected to stay fat, but I’d look thin standing next to him, in comparison. Perspective would be my friend. We all dream of moving to Norway, or Alaska, where we could wear massive padded coats all the time, and never reveal an inch of flesh. When it rains, we’re happiest of all. Then we can just stay in, away from everyone, in our pyjamas, and not worry about anything. The brains in jars can stay inside, nice and dry.

That bridge…it has a reputation.” “What?” I asked in confusion. How the fuck did a bridge have a reputation? “The bridge is one of the few in the area that has pedestrian access…” “I don’t understand,” I admitted, still completely clueless. “The bridge has been a popular location for jumpers in the past.” I

Don’t go downstairs for a bit.” “Why not?” said Ron. “Mum’s crying again,” said Fred heavily. “Percy sent back his Christmas jumper.” “Without a note,” added George. “Hasn’t asked how

agency, where she’d filled seemingly endless paperwork despite all the forms she’d already filled out online, and was now in proud possession of the keys to a Honda Civic. It was nine o’clock in the morning, and the sky outside was as gray as pewter, with mean little flakes of snow, not the fluffy, festive kind, drifting down on a muted grey landscape of concrete and leafless trees. Claire dumped her bag in the trunk—or the boot, she supposed, someone in England would call it. Claire had always loved her godmother Ruth’s English accent, and when she was a kid she’d quizzed Ruth on all the different British words. Pavement for sidewalk. Jumper for sweater. Rubber for eraser. The last one, of course, had caused eleven-year-old Claire to burst into muffled giggles of embarrassment and mirth. Ruth had just smiled, her eyes twinkling, sharing the admittedly immature joke. Slowly, very conscious she was driving on the other side of the road, Claire pulled onto the road, and then followed signs for the M62 and York. An hour and a half later, those mean little flakes of snow had turned thick and fluffy and white. They were beautiful, but her little car was not handling the snowy roads all that

There was a picture of Blair, white teeth gleaming, looking fit in a red jumper and a hat, sitting next to a huge Christmas tree surrounded by cheery multicultural children.

It was, she said to herself, the single most exciting few minutes of my entire life. The first time I've ever felt like that. The only time I've ever wanted a man more than I've wanted my solitude. The most sensual and stimulating physical contact I've ever experienced — and all of that despite the fact that we were in public. And you were drunk.

She'd finally fallen in love, after so many years of wondering what the fuss was all about, and frankly it felt awful. Life would have been much simpler without it; without seeing the rainbow and going back to living life in shades of grey. Without realising what she was missing out on. Without understanding, for the first time ever, that being content wasn't the same as being happy.

She smiled back at him, but neither of them spoke. It was like this sometimes. They'd either be bantering, or silent — as though they didn't always need to talk. Just being together was enough.

The hallway felt cold and frigid, and smelled of old pizza. She walked into the empty living room, and was confronted with Marco's bed. The sheets were still rumpled, and she knew they'd smell of him. For one confused moment, she wanted to do nothing more than climb in, and wrap herself up in the fragrance of the man she loved.