Here are my special socks. They are fluffy inside, and a bit cheesy, and the thermal quality of their excellent cosiness is the only fecking thing keeping One warm at the mo,
Here One sits, listening to the Archer’s Omnibus, (who else HATES that new Tony?) and viewing oneself through the gothic looking glass, in between the photos of One and Boy/One and V ex H and One’s big fat ginger cat.
One keeps a special picture of One and V ex H taken one Christmas morning. One is already rat arsed and opening presents and V ex H has got a face like a pustulating gonad.
Last week One had a new haircut. Much more suitable for the more mature woman, with long sides and an short back, but now a few days down the line One has reverted to the scrunchie and natural curls.
What’s the fecking point?
Even if I waxed me face/had a bath/put some eyeliner on/smiled etc One wouldn’t stir the faintest trousorial murmerings.
As for the WN …
After all my hard work attempting to ready her for marrying into the aristocracy, she’s only going out with some normal, no mark, loser this afternoon.
And if One hears one more time…
‘He has a girlfriend.’
One will batter her to death with a sock full of One’s old wedding and engagement rings!!