The relocated ‘art’ section at Dartington is so fecking small that there is room for three normal sized paintings or ONE of LOVELY ONE’S.
‘Oh the food section has been extended,’ opined the bod what orders stuff from One, ‘food is doing really well, much better than everything else, so they get all the best and biggest locations.’
KIN ADA – DO THESE PEOPLE WANT ME TO BUY THE CYANIDE FROM AMAZON.
Selfish grockle bastards coming down here from Birm-feckin-ingham and spending all their spons on scran!
WOSS GOIN ON?
One emerged from the undergrowth, having macheteed me way through bramble and briar to be confronted by the broken down B&Q shed that now serves as the Art Gallery.
Frankly, there’s more hanging space in the bog in the Underground Lair!
And then just to put the tin hat on the proceedings a delivery note was required before One could be processed.
OH FECK IT! WHAT’S THE EFFING POINT?
And then to further add despair to a moist, yet clammy, experience, One accidentally crushed Gerald to death between me gargantuan thighs in the car on me way ‘ome! (more on that story later)
Today, One shall embrace the life of the sloth.