‘Are you sure you two girls are old enough to smoke?’ enquired the amusing article in the fag shop of One and BF.
One giggled and twisted One’s control knicker leg to such an extent that One inadvertently made a v important discovery by not paying attention and purchasing the wrong fags.
And Lo, the Menthol Fag was discovered. A drag on one of them and One felt positively fragrant and fighting fit.
‘A gurt big pack of green ones?’ went on the flirtatious fag flogger.
If he’d have offered One a five pack of Cubans rolled up a maidens thigh One would have nodded, still blushing and hopping from One foot to another with the ridiculous glee of being flirted with by a real, red blooded, pulse positive male of the species.
One sold One’s wedding and eternity ring to fund the festive season. ‘Aaaaah’ One hears you chorus Dear Reader, but, no, sorrow not, for One was married for a mere twenty minutes many moons ago.
With a Barbour pocketful of cash One and BF peeked inside a curiosities emporium and One espied a divine day-bed on which One could re-enact the death scene from Camille should the occasion arise.
‘You’re not getting that!’ declared BF and shot of up the high street in an indignant manner.
One could just picture Oneself, pale, beautiful, in a Victorian lace nightgown, snuggled up in me v expensive shabby chic throw on that there day bed with all you adoring Readers sobbing around my tiny body, racked with pain.
But no, BF the sensible would have One shuffle off this mortal coil in me flippin’ truckle bed, no doubt wearing me brown jim-jams.
Any road up, the top end dealt with, the bottom end is still in question and unless an assistant with a mop and bucket and suitable wipe-clean seating is arranged One won’t be Mwa-Mwa-ing One’s public at the Art Show Opening this evening.