Been plodding manfully on with the WW2 waistcoat and keeping an eye out for a member of the opp it might fit. Sadly, with the exception of a Masai Mara Warrior, it has begun to look increasingly unlikely, so with that in mind, One mournfully unknitted it and embarked upon yet another scarf. Biggan Ryd Upp (my knitting Guru) would get her shreddies in a proper twist if she could see it.
Any road up, collected Uncle Bert and sallied forth to the South for reasons various.
Called in on DLS to be confronted by FFS in strange attire: bottom half clad in shiny blag leggings and storm trooper boots, top half in a silver lurex jumper, circa 1972, last seen on Queenie Watts at the Barnsley Working Men’s Club Christmas do. In a bizarre way FFS was rocking it as a look.
Have just received a missive from One’s mortgage company advising me that they have ‘just been informed that my buy-to-let is now my main residence.’ How can this be, One peruses, as One told them it was three years ago. ‘We have no record of that,’ they replied, ‘And we want you to repay the loan immediately or source another lender.’
OH SHIT – THAT’S IT THEN
ONE IS SHAGGED
UP SHIT CREEK WITHOUT A PADDLE