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Friday, 11 April 2014

In which One is in a bit of a rush…

One is now informed, to a degree, of the censorship of mail during the first world war.  All One said was ‘Good Morning’ and One unleashed a lecture upon the aforementioned subject.

We were briefly disturbed by the ‘specials’ from next door who were going up town for their daily cake walk in the Co op. 

And then…

Two elderly spinsters of this parish appeared from the other wing of Stalag Malthouse…

One of them, the one with the ridiculously long hair for a person of advancing years, appeared to have a nasty red gash under her nose.  Upon closer examination, it proved to be her mouth!  It was smothered in Max Fuctor no 69 – a startling shade of scarlet, fashioned from the blood of aborted council estate foetus.

Off they popped in matching mobility scooters to ‘worry’ old men at whist drives…

Any road up, One informed the ‘specials’ that One is shearing with immediate effect.  Obv the poor dears were devastated to learn that One is on the road again, but, no matter One feels sure that given time and counselling they will recover.

Freshly returned from assisting Uncle Bert with the soaking of his anemones in a bucket, One found a message from some minted sort who requires a view over Totnes…

‘Have you got an original of Totnes?’ came the enquiry.

‘Yes.  I am just finishing One as we speak,’ retorted Lovely One.



Toodle Pip, Dear Reader

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