Would you Christmas Eve it, Dear Reader, the flamin’ power was off when One awoke from a restless slumber this a.m.
Obv this sparked panic in the extreme, since One was due to pootle up the town to see the JTWSEG.
Fortunately the Harvest Fest had begun the day before and the plug hole was brimming over with super-floo-us shavings. But the straighteners hadn’t been deployed, or the ironing done!
Quelle Horruer, mes ami, could One dare to go ‘fluffy’ about the head region?
One lay perusing the dilemma until One was sure to miss the Archers Omnibus and decided, that since comms were down there would be no way of contacting the JT bla bla, so One made the best of a bad job.
One biffed up with hair in the manner of a blue poodle (left the lightest Ash Blonde on for too long), an unironed frock and some hastily applied make up done in the near darkness of the Underground Lair.
One was in such a two and eight that One couldn’t even scarf down the offered Sunday Roast!
One then finds out that the Memsahib had been informed that Stalag Malthouse would be ‘switched off today until at least 3.30pm.’ Why can’t the mouldy old madamoiselles tell us anything important like that instead of whining on about fag ash and dog shite?