One is now existing completely in cyberspace. One need never, and indeed never does, venture beyond the cave-like boundaries of the Underground Lair.
Since One is able to have supplies delivered herein by grocers various One is able to remain in One’s jim jams until One expires and is consumed by rodents.
‘Ha! Who gives a Kipper’s Dick?’, I hear you cry, Dear Reader,
‘Not a one’ comes the resounding reply.
The runaway train/car crash/general all round fecking disaster of One’s existence is drawing to a close. One can feel the icy arms of death brushing against One’s creamy white shoulders as One perambulates twixt the fridge and the TV.
One catches sight of the crooked and gnarled digit of destiny beckoning One onward through the veil as One downs the second pint of Pinot.
Yesterday One had the opportunity to feel the embrace of something with a pulse.
Obv One eschewed such a thrill, since the Underground Lair is awash with seething Wood Nymph hormones at the mo. Any elderly roué entering the establishment would choke almost immediately on the sexual tension left by the residue of a Romantic Poet’s direct descendant.
Obv One proffered One’s sage wisdom to the WN in the manner of a short lecture regarding the upbringing of the British Aristocracy.
THE LITTLE BLEEDER LAUGHED OUT LOUD AT ONE
One has seen fit to ignore the possible addition of exotic, temperamental, comedy-sock wearing, foot stamping tiny temptresses infiltrating the unsullied bloodline of our most luscious Lord, but NO MORE.
Off with the Doc Martens and on with a frock!
At this rate One will never get a grace and favour apartment, will One.
One is required by a fictional character to issue a withdrawal of the ‘chain smoking/drunkard’ description, made by this fictional character.