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Tuesday, 17 June 2014

In which One has an impromptu day out with a chum…


Selworthy, Dear Reader.  A village built by a jolly nice Victorian gentleman for his workers who had previously lived in hovels.

‘If you think I’m living in that, you’re sadly mistaken!’ came the complaint of a Victorian WAG (grubby arms folded defiantly across ample bosom.)

But, indeed they all  moved, having had their previous village razed to the ground by said enlightened boss.

Selworthy became the choice numerous deux following an aborted visit to Horner’s Tea Room, sadly boarded up and nestling in it’s gloriousness next a ghastly emporium offering a Mr Whippy cornet whilst having One’s generous girth wedged into the most unacceptable of plastic chair!

Atop the Selworthy Church steps One had the perfect view of Beakery Duncan, according to Lovely Gordon (One’s companion Du Jour) the highest point in Somerset.

‘Shall we park at the bottom on walk up?’ challenged his Loveliness.


These, Dear Reader, are what pass for Walking Boots in the Underground Lair.  Obv., One politely declined and motored in the Morgan to a far more acceptable height above sea level before alighting.

Why, only last week the object of One’s desire uttered those awful words still ringing in One’s ears…

‘Have you got any walking boots?’

Now, even One’s chums are at it!  Despite having known One for the passing of many a moon, even LG expected One to perambulate up a mountain with nary a donkey or a Sherpa in tow.

What is it with these coves?  Do they not appreciate the delicate company of a frock-wearing, hand-bag swinging, lipsticked and laced confection?

Surely not all gentleman want one of those grey-haired, spectacle-wearing, back-pack brandishing, walking-booted old bats so abundant about the National Trust Gardens at this time of year?


If they jolly well do, they should give One prior warning so One at least can rustle up some ghastly, sensible attire.


Received a communiqué from the practically perfect Masterful Gentleman to inform One that he was trapped inside a gymnasium with thirty nubile young ladies.

Strueth, methinks, shall have to discourage that sort of day out in future!

1 comment:

Michael said...

Your feet looked pretty. Maybe it's the sharp red paint.