See, Dear Reader, how Geisha-ing for the A of the F has taken it out of One?
Face on inside out, woodbine stuck to a crack in me bottom lip, hair like cotton wool…
One could go on, and indeed One shall…
You could scour out the inside of that coffee pot with them ‘ands, you could.
Does One get a crumb of affection hurled in One’s direction? Does One, feck!
The A is a particularly inscrutable old fecker. I know, I know, Dear Reader One said One was up to the back teeth with love-declaring-bunnagers.
‘Well, you got what you wanted then didn’t you?’ One hears you chorus Dear Reader, and yes, One certainly did.
‘Need any help out there Darlin’?’ comes the weak and feeble mantra, whilst Tottingham are having a little game of football with West Hamilton Rovers or somesuch.
‘No yer alright,’ replies One through gritted teeth (not gritted too firmly though as with the lack of nutrition and affection One’s teggies are almost all loose now)
Occasionally the sound of an aerosol can being discharged and the ghastly aroma of a catering pack of Raid fills the air.
The A of the F oft stirs from his delicious moss green velour, elderly person’s, adjustable arm chair in order to massacre the fly population of North Dev. In fact, so much so, that poor dear Lovely One no longer emits a cloud of No 5 as One wafts through life. No, Dear Reader, One is permanently coated in a liberal sufficiency of Raid, to the extent that any airborne critter coming within ten feet of One’s person, simply plummets to earth, stone cold dead!
And so, Dear Reader, One shall spend the remainder of One’s ‘time off’ soaking One’s chilblains in the washing-up bowl (support stockings on, of course) and coating One’s callused hands with Swarfega, in order that One can sooth the A of the F’s fevered brow next weekend, when One’s finished the hoovering, obv.