No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than though shall hear the surly sullen bell.
Give warning to the world that I am fled
For I love you so.
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe
Fear not, Dear Reader, for Lovely One hasn’t the merest of intention to shuffle off this mortal coil just yet awhile.
One just felt like writing it down as it’s so lovely.
Any road up, it shall stand as a fitting memorial to the slimy little bastard snails One just stamped under me Doc Martens.
‘Scoff my rocket would you? Well TAKE THAT’
Don't tell me not to live,
Just sit and putter,
Life's candy and the sun's
A ball of butter.
Don't bring around a cloud
To rain on my parade!
(Bob Merrill, Jule Styne)
But that’s just what’s happened. One shan’t bore you with the details, Dear Reader. Suffice it to say that the warders in Prisoner Cell Block Malthouse are pinging the straps on their dungarees and preparing to march…
Isn’t it just a slice of heaven how some little people step lightly upon the earth (even if they wear big Doc Marten boots) and spread their youth and joy around as soft as stardust…
And then there are others who stamp, splay-footed upon the ground in their Clarks sandals (circa 1959) leaving a slug-like trail of bitter spite wherever they slither.
No matter, darlings, One is positively serene without the aid of Prozac (or any other kind of Zac)
Events are moving apace in the Wood Nymph/Descendant of the Romantic Poet saga…
Possible bathing opportunities in the stately pile…
Meeting friends and family…
It’s just too, too thrilling, Dear Reader…
A tiny hiccup is foreseen by Lovely One, however, when it comes to the (possible) new Ladyship listing her hobbies in Burkes Peerage…
Apropos of nothing, One enquired last evening…
‘What are your favourite pastimes?’
‘EATING, SLEEPING AND HAVING SEX,’
came the reply.