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Friday, 16 May 2014

In which One has a temper tantrum….


Were you, Dear Reader, to enquire, in the manner of a bosom chum,

‘How went the picker nick tryst yesterday?’

One would be obliged to reply…

‘It went downhill after One crashed the Bentley, dear bosom chum.’

You, Dear Reader, in the manner of aforementioned BC would settle down on the Louis Cans sofa, with furrowed brow, should the botox allow, and bid me continue…

Once upon a time…

One picked up the old reprobate since he is unable to drive, and set off for a secluded riverbank somewhere in the West Country.

The burgeoning picker nick basket, having been hastily stuffed by Wivey Larder, sat temptingly on the rear seat.

To cut an L S short, One was brutally assaulted by a tractoring device in an extremely narrow lane adjacent to Uffers.

The Tractoring device operative merely snarled at One and shot off to plough something without nary a backward glance – the bastard!

One, who is occasionally given to a tantrum worthy of a two year old, shot out of the ve-hicle, stamped about in the road shouting…


Whilst the RR sat in stony silence with a suitably visible level of quiverage.

Incidentally, when the incident occurred, One was channelling Anna Wintour and wearing Grandpa Rice’s authentic vintage polaroids, circa 1960.


‘tas cost One the the price of an entire fecking back right lens.

Any road up, One eventually climbed back into the drivers seat and shouted to the poor dear RR…

‘If you say one fucking word, I’m taking you home, right, fucking, now!’

And so One is eschewing the search for a benefactor, getting a proper job and continuing along One’s usual path for the foreseeable…

‘Tis clear that the one above is fairly determined that One shall remain alone…

But not necessarily untouched by human hand….

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