Many things to furrow One’s brow…
How do those blue hundreds and thousands kill slugs and snails? AND, now what is One going to do at three in the morning with no molluscs to murder?
The mysterious disappearance of the Ravishing Roué for one. Closely followed by the ghostly silence of even the slightest Whittakerage.
‘They must have died,’ opined One to a chum.
‘Just because they don’t contact you doesn’t mean they’ve died,’ admonished said chum.
‘Well, what other possible reason could there be?’ enquired One with sticky out bottom lip (trembling of course)
‘THEY DON’T LIKE YOU,’ countered chum sternly.
One supposes that this could be a possibility.
Any road up, One doesn’t give even one furry cheek of a rat’s fat…
All One needs now is to entice some other desperate old pensioner over the threshold. After all, HOUSEWORK was performed in the Underground Lair and ‘twould seem a shame not to be taken advantage of on a freshly polished chestnut oak wooden floor.
Ooooh there goes the door…………………….