The straw that broke the camel’s back, see above, that’s me that is, Dear Reader.
Off to see the Doc, although I don’t know what he can prescribe for me, apart from a bullet through the head.
You find One sitting here in One’s fluffy, contemplating One’s next move…
No sales for the past three months
Not able to even go arse-wiping since One has been tumoured up/upside down in a ditch/coughing up bits of lung
What’s to be done?
‘Sort out all your stuff and go to see the Citizen’s Advice people. They’ll know what to do,’ said BF, and of course, she’s right, but I can’t help feeling that I am old/big/ugly enough to sort myself out.
Spitting it all out on here is ridiculous since no one, unless they read this, would have the vaguest inkling that One wasn’t chipper in the extreme.
The answer to, ‘how are you?’ is always ‘jolly fine’ even if One had a limb hanging on by a tendon.
But – today One feels every day of One’s fifty-seven years and looks it too. One’s poor, battered old bodkin just wants to climb back into the truckle bed, go to sleep and never wake up.
Oh, and by the way, the straw that broke the camel’s back was yet another missive from the solicitor regarding One’s water butt in the back garden. Apparently the downpipe has been damaged by One’s butt and One has fourteen days to replace it otherwise One shall be prosecuted.
One’s butt has a lot to answer for…