Approximately, of course, and anyway it felt like more than that…
Is the time One spent under house arrest, as a poorly nourished…
‘Ooooh I haven’t got any white sliced bread.’
ONE HAS NEVER KNOWINGLY MASTICATED A MORSEL OF MOTHER’S PRIDE
‘Alan Titmouse/Bradley Walsh/some other gurning nonentity, is on in a minute.’
ONE PRIDES ONESELF ON THE ABSENCE OF POPULAR ‘CULTURE’ IN ONE’S LIFE…
Intelligent conversation wasteland…
‘Yesterday I had two squares of chocolate and a stuffed chicken leg for me tea.’
The sharing of food/illness/medication information is what passes for communication.
Oh and let’s not forget the profanity and squealing that accompanied any discussion of the retirement apartment, THAT SHE HAD CHOSEN HERSELF, that One has had to endure.
Upon One’s return all fell eerily silent until One crumbled under the pressure and telephoned to enquire as to the progress of the move.
and guess what
SHE’S NOT FECKING MOVING