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Monday, 31 March 2014

In which One drones on about One’s raw deal…

Well that’s just about put the tin fecking lid on it!

No card, no phone call, no text, no email.   Jeeeez, we’re in-feckin-undated with modes de communication and yet One’s offspring eschews them all in favour of deadly silence.

What should One do?  Cast your mind back, Dear Reader, to when One was prone in an NHS bed with sides…

Clinging to the thread of life as the three fates loomed large with their secateurs, One had no family or friends fretting at her bedside, only Uncle Bert with a face like a slapped arse and exuding the faintly erotic aroma of frying onions.

I know, I know, One has been ‘dining out’ on ‘The Stroke’ since time immemorial, making jokes about it being a ‘Seasonal’ Berry Aneurism and all that, but let me remind you all that

ONE SHOULD BE A PERSON OF SOME IMPORTANCE IN AT LEAST ONE PERSON’S LIFE, fer feck’s sake!

Maybe it’s all down to the murder of Gerald.  You recall, Dear Reader, he who met his end (and mine) between One’s thighs in the ve-hicle.

Gerald has been living in the car since One acquired it, spinning webs and generally colonising the dash, and when the window wouldn’t shut, the wing mirrors.

One hoofed out a blueberry sized ball of spider-spit (presumably housing the coming generation of Geralds) or should that be Geraldine?  One’s not entirely sure about the reproduction of the Volvo spider.

Any road up, Gerald/Geraldine exuded enough spit the other day to drop directly between One’s thighs, and the rest (including G/G) is history.

Is this really enough to unleash this month’s horrors…

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LOSING THE UNDERGROUND LAIR

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