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Sunday, 30 November 2014

In which the memory foam tries to forget...

'You really must go to Padstow,' said the diminutive Mar as she swilled a quart of Chardonnay to wash down the six pack of cheese and onion.
One merely mentioned this in passing to the wonderful A of the F, and in a trice, One was on One's way wrapped snugly in One's beaver.
Despite the darling man having been at the wheel of his ve-hickle for the entire week, and hanging on to the arse end of a bout of man flu that would have hospitalized a lesser cove, he demonstrated his unwavering devotion by immediately whisking One off.
Where has he been whilst One's been frog snogging all these years?
No matter, he's here now.
We espied a gallery that could do with an immediate injection of Claire Rice Art.
As if anticipating One's desires, he then took One to Port Isaac, which proved to be a damp and dingy little destination.
'£10 Doc Martin tours' were advertised in the harbour. A bit stchoopid, since One could see everything from where One was loitering.
Each place was beautifully captured on film for One, to the level of perfection that left One considering jettisoning One's camera into the briney and using the case as a handbag.
One would obv NEVER admit it, but One is just a tiny bit in love with him.
No, Dear Reader, not like the school girl, knicker twisting, mooning about love so oft referred to in this diary, but proper, being quiet while he's reading, letting him watch the football, doing the washing up, love.
'Well try not to feck it up,' ordered BF as she shot up the top of the garden for a fag, looking like Tiny Tim, on her crutch.
One shall do One's level not to, especially since the darling man is going to install a normous truckle bed in the underground lair, complete with one of them 'memory foam' mattresses that's thicker than the lining of One's uterus.

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