That’s me that is, Dear Reader, Pollyanna…
But ‘Oh oh, I’m in trouble, someone’s come along and burst my bubble.’
Following on from yesterday’s miserable little dirge, One is resigned to One’s fate.
One doesn’t do altercation/spite/pettiness so One is orf. Who knows where? Fecked if One does.
‘Slap the focking beetch,’ as the Wood Nymph would say, but no, One shall remain serene (One can’t risk frowning and growing another wrinkle)
One knows One’s butt has to be removed, but not yet, Dear Reader, One must preserve the evidence lest One end up in Holloway.
The Underground Lair, having fulfilled it’s primary objective of providing a safe haven for Boy to turn into Boy/Man, has to go.
Tis a shame for SIT who had turned it into a peace haven/commune/dreamscape, but there we are.
One shan’t be boomeranging back in there unless it’s absolutely necessary. For, ‘tis for sale to the highest bidder.
Any road up that miserable fact shall be thrust to the back of One’s mind as tomorrow, following One’s radiogram broadcast (9.30 a.m. 10radio.org) One shall be sashaying forth to North Heaven for a weekend of unbridled bliss and fish finger sandwiches with the A of the F.
An Oasis of limpid desire lies deep in those ice-blue eyes, to counter the arid beastliness of the barren desert of the week.
Sophisticated evenings of lolling about on the sofa smoking fags and drinking Vodka lie just beyond the horizon awaiting a feverish One with, no doubt, the A of the F pinging One’s braces (BF got them to stop me keks falling down) and One hoop –la- ing onions rings around his policeman’s helmet until the early hours.