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Tuesday, 19 November 2013

In which One is invited up the passage…

‘Tis quiet as the grave in the Underground Lair now that Aged P has been dispatched to Lutonistan.  The ozone layer up there will now be severely depleted by the methane emissions from beneath the all over, fluffy blanky coverall that is de riguer for all the old biddingtons up her street.

But – fear not, Dear Reader, the Specials, next door have found an atom of wall that hasn’t had the shite bashed out of it with a mallet and are DIYing their little brains out.  So, One has constant noisy proof of other oomans in the block.

Biffed off through the gate and up the passage to see One’s bosom chum, Lovely Gordon.

‘Come at five for tea and cake,’ ordered the Lovely G when he telephoned earlier.

One had spent an entire day grooming Oneself to within an inch of perfection, so was keen to display a freshly dermo blasted, waxed, exfoliated, threaded, dunked in asses milk, moisturised, oiled and plucked bodzilla to any memb of the opposite that was ready for a gander.

Had to be Lovely Gordon, since the Jolly Tall, Well Spoken, Elderly Gentleman has cleared off to Belgium with the express purpose of acquiring the finest chocolate the chocolatiers can create for the delectation of your very own bon vivuer , Lovely One.

Uncle Bert, no longer in attendance, is busy steaming up the windows in the residences of all the toothless widows in the block.  The absence of elderly men (apart from the chap who has the imaginary friend in his shed) has rendered Bert the stud of the senile. 

The wily old cove has taken to complimenting the old biddzillas re: hair, garden, outfits, hounds etc and has a constant stream of Tenna-ed up, hairy-chinned, toothless old crones biffing up with fruitcake in an effort to get a  go on his old duffle-bag willy.

Any road up, One digresses…

One was smouldering at the door of LG at precisely 5.00pm anticipating an eventual cup of cha and a slice of cake…

‘Knock knock’

No reply – So One shoved the ‘herb of the day’ Parsley, through the letterbox and cleared off.

‘Where are you?’ came the call, some minutes later, ‘I got held up at the shop by an unhelpful assistant and have just flounced out.’

Turned out that Lovely G had an altercation with said shop assistant over some dispersible aspirin. What with that and some strange bod up the passage mistaking him for a janitor and demanding the filling in of an hole outside his residence, Lovely Gordon was in a right two and eight and could only calm himself with a peruse through a white goods catalogue.

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