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Monday, 13 October 2014

In which One is a killing machine...

Good Morning Darlings.
A splendid weekend of love in a mist has been embraced in all its forms by Lovely One and the A of the F.
'Could you despatch the prey?' Enquired the A.
One is fairly sure this enquiry has little or no involvement with the Post Office, but rather the snappage of a slender throat.
'Of course' Countered One, having always been something of a brute.
'Well, we'll do it then!' Announced the A with regard to us spending the day beating for a local shoot.
Now, Dear Reader, One is finely tuned killing machine when it comes to the acquisition of a morsel of free scoff, but a slight niggle is suspended over One in the transportation department.
One is fine with the thrashing through the undergrowth. One is resigned to a day without One's face on. One is even OK with One's splendid hair getting damp and dishevelled. One scoffs at the blood, mud and guts that the day shall surely bring.
BUT, ONE is anxious in the extreme regarding the ascent and descent from the rear quarter of of farm vehicles various.
One need only refer you, Dear Reader, to the ghastly spectacle that is One when attempting to mount/dismount the rear seat of the Pinksters Land Rover.
In fact, last time this feat was eventually accomplished, the great Wivey unwashed had enjoyed full visual access to One's nether regions, since One was compelled to tuck One's frock firmly into me Gok Wan control leggings in order to complete the procedure.
You see, Dear Reader, One is the possessor of, albeit astonishingly shapely, very short little legs.
One can hear the A of the F now yelling...
'Get yer arse in the fecking truck woman!'
Will One cut it with a truck load of hairy arsed farm hands? One is rather a daring, devil May care sort, so One shouldn't disgrace Oneself entirely, but only if One gets a shove up the chuff box to assist One's tiny little legs in the heavage of One's delicious little spherical self into the back of the aforementioned truck.

1 comment:

Michael said...

I don't know why you couldn't use those incredible powers of persuasion (referenced last post) and get some blighter to offer his back for your stepping stool. :)

(Forgive my awkward attempt at using a Britishism.)