How to journey to the North of England in difficult circumstances.

This is a very special guest post from the sixteen year old Mary Wollstonecraft, who writes about moving to Yorkshire because her feckless father, once again, lost all his money.

Dear Readers

It has been requested of me by a friend that I make a humble contribution to a sort of log book, the nature of which I am as yet unclear about. If I reflect on the topic it seems to me that the weblog is not a letter nor a diary, and perhaps 'tis closer to the pamphlet. I have seen a pamphlet, several, indeed, in the library of my new friend's father – he is a philosopher, I believe. But I must not digress already. My task, if I may call it so, is to recount to the best of my as yet unrealised abilities, my experience of growing up a young woman in late eighteenth century, zombie-ridden Yorkshire.


I would be lying if I said I was in any capacity suited to give such an account – I did not grow up in Yorkshire, but merely arrived here three weeks ago today. Also, I am told that zombies are not so common in England in the twenty-first century, and indeed that their presence in Yorkshire in the eighteenth century is very little talked of. The former does not surprise me greatly - I and my family are killing a large number of them everyday. The latter, I cannot account for.

Our journey, from a village in the south of London, took three days - which was very good going – mostly because we were being chased by zombies for a large part of the way. There are no zombies where I come from, but I dare say that my own upbringing did much to prepare me for dealing with the foul beasts. I do not wish to trouble you with my complaints but let he be said that I believe that it is more remarkable that I should have survived living with such a family as I have for nearly sixteen years, than that I should have successfully fought off zombies for three weeks and three days.

But I am digressing again, dear readers, and no doubt you would like to know more about my adventurous journey through Northern England. Also I strongly feel, despite having been told that there are now very few zombies in England – I can hardly believe it! - that I should be of best use if I were to help my readers understand how zombies may most efficiently be fought.

The one practicality that I must insist on bringing to the attention of anyone interested in the subject is that a zombie may not be killed through loss of its limbs, no matter how many. I have seen zombies who had lost all but one limb hobble on that limb towards an unsuspecting human and fall unto them, as a bird of prey might descend on a lamb. I even hear of zombies, having lost all four limbs, who would lie in wait in the darkness of an isolated passage, for a victim to trip over them, after which the zombie would feast on their brains. Incidentally, I have always suspected that this was a sign that zombies are capable of acting collectively, for how would a zombie with no legs find its way to a dark alley?

We must also reflect that it is in the zombie's nature to lose limbs. Zombies are, after all, little more than animated corpses. Corpses rot, and as they rot, they will break. Do not expect, then, to harm a zombie merely by separating it from its arms or legs.

No! 'Tis the head and nothing else that must be severed. A zombie body will lose all capacity for movement if it not be attached to a head. A detached zombie head may live on for a short while, but only if it is fed, and it may conveniently be destroyed by bringing a horse's hoof onto it.
The very best weapon for decapitating a zombie is of course the sword, and next the scythe, both being long and sharp so ideal for easy and efficient despatch of a large number of these creatures. But such weapons are not always very easy to come by, and it is not regarded as respectable for a young woman such as myself and a lady such as my mother to wield them.

But fear not! There are many other ways to achieve the very same result. In fact, it is possible to decapitate a zombie by throwing any object that is sufficiently hard at its neck. Do not forget that a zombie is made of rotting flesh, so easily breakable! I became an adept at the throwing of books, and was able to dispatch a fair number of our enemies in this manner during our journey North. (I have now very few books remaining and whereas I do not like to ask, would be most grateful to anyone who could find a way of sending me some, in particular works by Mr Rousseau).

I fear I have now tired my readers with my ramblings and must in any case go as mother is calling for me to bring out the work basket and father just said he had heard some chomping noises coming from the library. Till later then, dear reader.

If you enjoy Mary's ramblings, you can follow her on twitter: @marythehyena.

Also, you can read another post from her here.

If you want a laugh go to Vegemitevix's Friday Funny page!