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Wednesday, 19 November 2014

Inwhich One deploys the Birthday Suit...

Suddenly realised that Christmas is hurtling toward One at breakneck speed round the bend in hot pursuit of the a A of the F' s birthday.
Upon enquiry as to what the inscrutable blighter does to mark his particular passage of time, One was informed...
'It's just another day.'
One has spent the passing of many a moon seeking a curmudgeonly, inscrutable and adorable companion such as he and One is here to inform you that ...
One perused to the max over the interweb to find the perfect gift with change from a fiver.
Should One opt for the catering pack of Raid?
Let me explain, Dear Reader, The A has an on going fued with flies that are hell bent on invading his abode.
The North Devon fly is a persistent and hardy specimen that appears to be invulnerable to all but an aerosol canfull of Raid per fly.
One has oft found Oneself surrounded by the moist mist of a recently emitted Raid cloud to the extent that One is now so toxic to airborne critters that upon entering a ten foot exclusion zone around One the blighters drop down, stone dead.
Best not get that then!
Perhaps a subscription to a photography magazine?
Or, perhaps not, since that would involve such demonic diatribes as...
'Ere, just listen to what this twat says about': (insert any action/camera part known only to photographers) This generally is delivered from neath the snuggliness of the quilt where the barely awake Lovely One is doing something really important like looking at shoes on the internet.
Won't get that then.
One generally knits all One's gifts, but the A of the F was brought up in an atmosphere of fag smoke and clicking knitting needles like One was, and has vetoed the woollen love token.
That just leaves an eighty foot ocean going yacht, but even if One had the spons in One's pussy purse, he'd say...
'Yeah, it's alright but I'd have got the blue one.' ( the curmudgeonly cove)
So it'll just be One leaping out of a Dundee cake, singing Happy birthday, wearing nothing but a dab of Cilit Bang about One's decolletage and wearing, of course, One's birthday suit.

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