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Thursday, 6 November 2014

In which Mar bakes a dry stone wall...

One and Dear Little S Sat down to a table positively groaning under the weight of a feast great enough for an invading army.
'Eat some more, eat some more,' squeaked the diminutive Mar, like a demented parrot.
And One did indeed. In fact, this morning One rather looks to have dined upon a Space Hopper, swallowed whole, given the distended view of One's entirety in profile.
No matter, a quick frog March up a couple of steep slopes at the weekend will see that off.
Perchance One and the A of the F shall perambulate Dartmoor where Mar had obv journeyed to acquire our pudding. For twas surely a slab of dry stone walling served with Lidls finest creme fraiche. Dear Little S wisely swerved it in favour of a pre-festive mince pie.
'Have another bit, Lady Rice, It's my own recipe you know.'
One had to decline as One was busily attempting to digest half a sodding Dartmoor Tor.
But it wasn't that that finally rendered One completely shagged, it was the consumption of an entire jar of Haribo mice, four packets of crisps and a corner of the  European wine lake.
'Oh go on, eat it' slurred Mar, waving a partially masticated chocolate Father Christmas under One's nose, you've lost loads of weight, have a day off.'
She then proceeded to wave her skinny little, short legs under me nose and display her gnarled little, tiny feet.
'My little feet always stay the same size and never swell up even if I go up to eighteen and three quarter stone.'
Maybe so, but feck knows how they hold her up!

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