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Saturday, 27 December 2014

In whish One is boiling in me Christmas jim jams...

Meanwhile, back at the Manor...
'We need to go back to my gaff' said the A of the F, 'your printer won't work.'
And so within 17 minutes we were in the car and slithering through driving snow on the top of Exmoor.
'You're lucky, you are', opined Lovely One.
'How do you work that One out?' Came the retort.
'Well' says One, 'how many women do you know who could pack and leave with everything they need in ten minutes?'
'Only you,' Came the reply, 'and that is why we won't be moving in together just yet.'
Sad, but true, Dear Reader, as One has rather a rep for bolting.
'Come live with me and be my love and we shall all the pleasures prove.'
A John Donne mantra that One has lived by thus far with varying degrees of success.
And so it is thus that One is currently seeking a roomie.

Any road up...
The festive season has been a riot of carrot sharpening and tying things up with string. (See ref to BF' s Xmas gifts)
Telly is shite and the only info gained thus far by One is that One is 'sofa poor'
AND
Loads of needy souls worldwide want One to send them at least two quid a month.
Sad donkeys, Indians who can't see, chilly snow leopards, men who kip in doorways and Middle Eastern types who lost their cardigans in conflicts...
I tell you what, Dear Reader, they can have these sodding fleece Christmas pyjamas! It's fecking boiling in here! And anyway the A of the F says I look like an enormous, mutant four year old...

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