One, reclining in the manner of a consumptive, Pre-Raphaelite artist’s muse, had One’s contemplative reverie shattered by the pring pring of the hice phone…
‘Twas Aged P…
‘Where are you?’ came the enquiry.
‘Well, you just phoned me, I answered, so I’d guess I’m still here,’ countered One.
‘Was it your car you were in?’
‘No. The A of the F’s, as I said yesterday.’
‘I’ve just taken two paracetemol and I’ve run out of red wine,’ continued the Aged P.
‘Oh dear,’ opined One, ‘I’m still off the Pinot,’
‘Jackie will be round in a minute, She’s got a really loud voice you know, and a load of tattoos but she’s got a heart of gold,’ said the Aged one.
‘Oh that’s nice,’ answered One, ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Angie wants to know where you got your man from. She wants one, but she’s a bit worried about her back.’
One felt it wise to delve no further into the requirements of Angie or her ailing back.
‘Bloody Eileen is still going down the town for sausages every morning even in this weather, and they expect me to wait up until eleven for them to bring me my Tesco shopping. How did you get out of the car then?’ came a further enquiry.
‘We climbed out,’ informed One.
‘I’ve got loads of clothes that are too small for me, do you want them, they’re modern,’ she blathered on.
‘No thanks,’ declined One.
‘Why not? I said they’re modern,’ continued the indignant Aged P.
‘Well I don’t really want any of your old clothes thank you,’ says One.
‘Huh!’ huffed Aged P, obv in one now, ‘ I’m really modern and the woman in the Post Office wouldn’t believe I’m eighty five.’
‘Good for you’ countered One, ‘but I still don’t want any of your old clothes.
‘I’ll have to go now, there’s someone sitting in my privet’…