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Thursday, 22 January 2015

In which BF must be dying for a fag...

One is sitting up in bed propped upon six swans-down pillows. One is atop seven mattresses all filled with cygnet feathers, yet One can still feel the discarded pea beneath them all. It must have dropped out of me fish finger sandwich.
Yesterday One, rather misguidedly as it transpired, left the building for a brief sojourn to a used car merchant in order to acquire transport for the A of the F.
One should be, at the very least, confined to bed and very probably in some kind of rest home for consumptive middle aged ladies.
One, of course, has the palest complexion and the dishevelled locks of a pre Raphaelite heroine as One struggles for breath through a lace handkerchief.
But today, One shall be returning to the Underground Lair and the welcoming bosom of Wivey.
How shall One fare when abandoned by the A of the F?
Who can say, but home One must dash. BF must be dying for a fag.

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