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Tuesday, 2 December 2014

In which One is …


‘No longer mourn for me when I am dead, than though shall hear the surly sullen bell’…..  bla bla fecking bla

One never even knew that was a sonnet, One read it in a book by Victoria Holt when One was a gel.

Any road up, that and other miserable missives have haunted One’s dreams…

And then, One woke up in One’s cold, lonely truckle bed in One’s begrudged cell, without the A of the F beside One.

It can’t get any worse than that, can it?


One received an email during the night from the National Lottery…  Sign into your account as soon as you can we have news about your ticket.

‘Oh goody, goody’ thought One, One can have One’s insides scooped out with a silver spoon, in a private hospital, instead of having them hooked out with a spike by an apprentice from Dewhurst the butcher. (Hopefully not the one who hacked through One with a serrated vegetable knife to release Boy into an unsuspecting world)

Speaking of Boy, he who was nestled in the offensive organ of the day, should One pickle the womb in formaldehyde and present it to Boy as a Christmas gift?  No sales figures in for last month, so it looks as if that’s all he’s going to get.

One, however, has been informed that the A of the F will be spending the day of Chrimbo with his Dear Mama.  That is just as it should be. 

‘I thought you could come over on Boxing Day,’ says he.

Well, One is currently all gung ho and blasé about being alone, but really, One would rather spend the day at the A’s than being at the Underground Lair, or even, God forbid, the bung of doom.

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