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Tuesday, 17 June 2014

In which it was in truth, a tooth…

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The flowers break through their blanket of dew.

And there it is, Dear Reader, One’s summer work-station.  Isn’t One the luckiest one!  No office desk for One, no Supermarket checkout, handling dirty food, rather, a delightful garden seat (so recently sat upon by the descendent of the most famous romantic poet of all time) and the lovely vista of the grounds to inspire One.

One feels fairly certain that the poetic muse has soaked upward through One’s fat bottom (from the aforementioned garden seat) and inspired One to greatness this weekend.

One can’t explain the giddy, intoxicated feeling in any other way.  Or, I suppose it could be the introduction of a Masterful Gentleman into One’s life. Or the vodka.

‘He has a hard heart who does not love in May.’

Can’t remember who wrote that…

Any road up, it doesn’t apply to Lovely One who, in May, can be found easing herself gently out of her winter Liberty Bodice and discarding the camphor packs that have been in place since the prior November.  A must against the damp, biting, cold Somerset air. 

The bitter winter bathed away by summer breezes awakens the tiny smidgeon of girlish charm left tucked up the leg of One’s Spanx and by the time Flaming June comes a’calling beware all elderly gentleman entering the Underground Lair!

One has delved into the memory and ‘twould appear that any such luscious liaison has begun in June, including that of the ill-fated twenty-fecking-year debacle with Vile-ex-husband.

But, no matter, One is buoyant with delight at the mo.  All senses heightened (which can only be good for the painting output) and having developed super-human powers…

Including such a powerful suck that One is now capable of dislodging even the most entrenched of dental devices with a single inward sigh.

‘For goodness sake don’t swallow it,’ came the plea, ‘that cost me two hundred quid!’

So, there you have it, Dear Reader, dispel all thoughts from your mind regarding the nature of the body-part transported home in the Spode receptacle.

‘Twas in truth, a tooth!

 

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