It must have seemed like a good idea at the time, but when One woke up and found Oneself and the A of the F had been kipping on the floor, One needed the help of our Lord (see above) to attain the vertical.
It could have been attributed to the bottle of Prosecco One necked in celebration of reaching Christmas Day with all of One’s internal organs still internal and with nary a tumour in sight.
Or it could have been the second bottle of Prosecco that One inhaled at the sheer bliss of being in the Underground Lair with Boy and the A of the F.
‘Blimey Mum,’ opined Boy when the A of the F went off on one at the serious lack of phone signal and high speed broadband in Wivey, ‘he’s just like you only a bloke.’
Any who, One digresses, One had assumed that One was snugglerised in me spesh fluffy Christmas jim-jams looking like a cuddly Marilyn Monroe as One slid seductively neath the quilt, but upon closer inspection in the harsh and unforgiving light of day, One was found to be sporting One’s v old, faded jim-jam bottoms with the shagged elastic waist, teamed with a Matalan vest that is old enough to vote, with a fecking great lump of toothpaste stuck to the right tit area.
‘Why did you let me sleep on the floor,’ enquired One of the A of the F.
‘Have you ever tried arguing with a drunken woman?’ came the exasperated retort, ‘and anyway you were giggling and farting so much you wouldn’t have heard me.’
One might still have One’s organs in tip-top and in original packaging but One’s girlish, feminine allure appears to have left the building.