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Saturday, 8 February 2014

In which One is tempted by a horn of plenty…

Here’s One innocently recording One’s doings of a Saturday morning, Hurricane Herbert coursing up the passage, and who should interrupt One’s reverie but Lovely Gordon…

Not in person, One hastens to add, fortunately, since One is still clad in One’s Barbara Cartland Collection for the over eighties Onesie without a swipe of tinted moisturiser on One’s gob, still sporting a day’s beard growth (the bane of the post menopausal Barbie)

‘I’m just getting me gums round a horn of plenty caller,’ came the opening gambit.

‘Ooooh I’ve not had a horn of plenty for decades,’ opined One, ‘And I could do serious damage to one if ‘twere served up right at this minute.’

Lovely G hasn’t been espied up the passage for the passing of many a moon since us poor little West Country-ites are moist in the extreme.

One has kept an eye out for the homestead though and made sure sand bags are shoring up the cob walls so that the entire gaff isn't reduced to a soggy collapsed sand castle upon LG’s return.

‘I accidentally sat on a lady’s crutch on the four fifty-three from Paddington yesterday,’ spouted LG

‘That could explain the mystery hole in yer shreddies then,’ One countered.

One then went on to recount the story of the visit last evening of Boy and Vile ex Husband who fronted up for an individual washing up bowl full of chicken curry, both sporting new cameras with which they proceeded to take pictures of the nubile Puerto Rican wood nymph, if you ever did.

One is now leaving the poor defenceless creature on her lonesome in the Underground Lair as One is off to rehome the Aged P.

‘Lock all the doors and don’t answer the telephoning device’ is the best advice One can dispense.


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