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Saturday, 31 January 2015

In which One sniffs men...

Good morrow, Dear Reader...
You find One recumbent in the truckle bed, resplendent in One's second best fluffy what now wraps around One twice, thereby insulating One against the biting chill blowing through the A of the F' s boudoir.
Last evening was spent with the Lovelies, whilst the A and Mr Lovely and son spent hours planning their springtime voyage around the high seas of somewhere or other.
Mrs Lovely and One stroked kittens, drank gin out of cracked cups and watched Corrie.
'I'm not paying all that for luggage in the hold!' Opined the A, almost spilling his breaker of 20 year old single malt on his sausage roll.
'I'm only taking hand luggage.'
The trip, Dear Reader, is 'men only' fortunately, since Mrs Lovely and One would doubtless require fourteen Norman Hartnell ballgowns and several sets of control foundation garments that wouldn't fit in a duffel bag.
Aren't chaps stinky, revolting articles?
One recalled the first holiday the brother took with his spotty, smelly chums...
'Where's all your clean pants?' enquired Aged P.
'Don't need any' replied the brother, ' I've got me budgie smugglers on under me Levis.'
He was seventeen. The Cruising Crusties are all over 60 .
They grow no better, nor sweeter smelling with age...

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