‘You see the point of the pencil?’ enquired the Medical Bint, ‘I’m trying to get something the size of the other end of it (see above) into a hole the size of the point.’
Oddly enough, One had figured that might be what was occurring up the twinkle end. After all it was a Hurty Bottom grade pencil.
At least when you’re ejecting something the size of Iceland’s best frozen turkey (feeds 12) in the shape of Boy, you’re wacking it out yerself. ‘Tis a whole different ball game when some Medical Type is shoving something up the other way.
None the less, One only squeaked on one occasion when one of the ‘student’ types who were gathered for the twinkle excavation exclaimed…
‘Blimey it’s massive!’
She was given a hard stare by one of the others and immediately sent on a further ‘patient liaison’ course.
Any road up, apparently One’s entire insides are currently occupied by an enormous mass of something or other that will require removal under anaesthetic asap.
That could explain why from certain angles One looks like One’s swallowed a football.
Any road up, following a lengthy sojourn to the Pre Operative bod…
‘Do you smoke?’
‘Not usually, but I have been lately,’ said One.
‘Will you be smoking again?’
‘As soon as my sorry arse is outside your door,’ One countered and received a hard stare.
‘What about drinking?’
‘Well I would join you but we’re knocking it on the head for January,’ grimaced One.
Medical types are not the most humorous of chaps.
Upon One’s return to the Underground Lair the A of the F was already in situ.
Following the news that One will have to be taken to the hosp, brought back, looked after for at least two days, he immediately begun plans to organise One and take One to the Manor to recuperate.
One was going to utilise the very put-upon BF and BFP for the task, but, ‘twould seem at long last One actually has a significant other who cares for One!
One informed Boy of this phenomenon when One picked him up from the pub and once again his gob dropped open, just as it did when One repaired to the galley upon instruction from the A of the F.
As you know, Dear Reader, One is not to be trifled with by the male of the species and is not against chinning the blighters if necessary, but One is almost tamed by the tender machinations of the fearless lion-taming A of the F.
Hang on, Dear Reader, One is merely following in a long line of Lovely One’s…
In fact Nanny Cooper, who used to throw her handbag into the wrestling ring if she disagreed with a decision or who would think nothing of invading the pitch and biffing the ref with her shopping bag, and who had the loudest voice in Luton Market when on her stall…
would repair to the scullery to get Grandad another cup of tea the minute he rattled the empty one on top of the fireplace.
You see, Dear Reader, we are Amazonian sized, fearless warrior women who melt into little puddles of warm gooey glee given the tender care of the right man…