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Sunday, 18 January 2015

In which One is wheezing...

Oh woe is One...
Still feeling dire with the flu, a twenty Woodbine a day hacking cough and a baby sized tumour still intact.
Even by One's standards, the past week has been grim in the extreme.
Upside down in a ditch takes the prize for the worst event, but finding the A of the F collapsed on the bedroom floor comes a close runner up.
We should be in a comfy little home for poorly elderly persons.
And speaking of comfy little homes, One shall have to buck Oneself up and acquire some permanent employment, or One will end up in the gutter.
But, of course, even in the gutter, One shall be looking at the stars.
With One's irascible, undimmed, and some would say, entirely misplaced optimism, One continues to greet each new day with unfettered glee.
'You're just like your Father' said Aged P, 'things always happened to him'
If One sat about being fifty seven, I dare say nothing would happen to One, but One intends to squeeze every last drop of fun out of life, so there you have it, Dear Reader.
Chesty, soggy, beginning to resemble a sausage skin with inadequate filling and a scraggly neck 'like a vagina' as the Pinkster so delicately put it, One shall put on One's face and play to One's adoring public.

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