conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Free, Range, Chicks with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Women's Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'I Hope You Dance'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I Hope You Dance
  Dewi Hughes at Silverlock Tenders – your encouragement and practical support has been inspirational. Vicky, Pearl, Alison and all those awesome Free Range Chicks – I couldn't have got here without you. And again, big, big thanks to my King's Church family for cheering me on. Ruth Humphries – it's so good to run alongside you, sister!
  This afternoon, in front of my boss, my boss's boss and a whole load of his most lucrative clients, I proved her right.
  I had managed to quite successfully assume my usual role of note-taker, head-nodder and occasional bland comment-maker from the corner of the table. However, my delightful boss, Cramer Spence, then asked me a question.
  I looked up from the sketch of a great-crested newt I had been doodling onto my notepad. The newt clawed frantically at the sides of a compost bin, trying to scrabble its way out, its black tongue dangling out of one side of its mouth. Sliding against the bin, slick with rotting vegetable juices, the newt slipped deeper into the mush of month-old carrot peelings and banana skins. Cramer raised one plucked eyebrow at me. He did this a lot, the eyebrow raise. It was, according to Alice, his signature move. Alice was the twenty-one-year-old temp he had been sleeping with until he fired her, a month ago.
  I lowered my eyes back to the pad. What I thought was this: I wanted to take the pencil waggling about in Cramer Spence's grubby fingers and jab it into his eye. The one beneath the signature-move eyebrow. I am not a violent person. That this thought didn't horrify me, horrified me.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Ana Luisa was planting tulip bulbs underneath the ruin of the willow tree when I got back from work. I wandered over to join her. Even though I knew David had returned overseas, I couldn't seem to stop my eyes from jumping over to the front of the house anyway.
  Ana Luisa did not sound joyful. Her white smile was tinged with sorrow. I wondered if her sadness was because she hadn't told Mr David how she felt about him before he left. I tried not to linger on the thought that maybe she had, and he didn't return those feelings. I wanted David to be happy; to have someone to love, to come home to. That couldn't be me, not for a long time. Probably not ever. And I refused to stand in his way, everywhere but in the secret recesses of my wild imaginings.
  Another letter arrived, forwarded to me from Fraser's office. It informed me about the rising interest on my debt. Unless I paid off the minimum amount in the next thirty days, scary things would happen involving debt recovery agents, courts, even bigger fines and possibly handcuffs (the letter didn't mention that one, but the image was stuck in my frantic mind). If I wrote a cheque, which would surely then bounce anyway, would that be seen as acknowledging the debt as really mine? If I stuffed the letter in the back of my wardrobe, or burnt it in the stove, would the problem disappear up the chimney with a puff of smoke? Would showing the letter to my mother cause my stress levels to rise to the point where I had a stroke? Did I have any ideas that didn't make my insides clench up like a fist?
  She deftly prepared me the drink before taking a seat on the sofa opposite me. "How are you, Ruth? I've been praying for you."
  Every single time I saw Martine, which was at least twice a week depending on her schedule and mine, she asked if she could pray for me. Since our moment together on the debt centre office floor, she considered me fair game. I knew my polite refusals were pointless, that she prayed for me anyway, but at least for now she didn't do it within earshot.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last paragraph.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Can Marion discover her father's secret? And will she find peace, and perhaps even love, among the pigs?