‘You are suffering from anxiety and depression,’ said the doctoring device.
AND IS IT ANY FECKING WONDER?
After a lifetime of being told…
‘It’s alright for you. You can cope with anything…’
‘Do come round, I’m feeling low and you always cheer me up…’
‘Oh you’re such a strong person…’
‘You’re a survivor, you are…’
WELL ONE IS NOT FECKING ALRIGHT, ONE ISN’T
One is incacerated in the Underground Lair with only the spiders for company.
Boy is a constant no show and as for Vile-ex-Husband, he doesn’t even tell Boy when I’ve called.
Well – Bollicks to the flaming lot of you!
Lovely Gordon required a home visit late on Sunday night which One was able to provide. There’s nothing quite as humorous as watching a person with size 14 wakkin bwts keep falling over their own feet. Not that One laughed! Oh no, One is never cracking a grimace again.
One has a nasty gash under me nose – It’s me MOUTH
And – fer fecks sake – if all that misery wasn’t enough to make One slit One’s throat – some stchooopid, back-packed up nonentity (who looked like he would benefit from an encounter with a bar of soap) asked me…
‘Are you keeping warm?’
AM I KEEPING FECKING WARM!
Granted, One had snuck out under cover of darkness to bin One’s trash at the communal rubbish area, and One hadn’t got me face on and me lustrous golden locks were in a ‘Croydon Facelift’ ponytail…
BUT FER FECKS SAKE
‘AM I KEEPING WARM’
That’s what you say to old ladies, not Lovely Ones.