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Monday, 9 February 2015

In which One shares the ugly truth...

OMG it's happened...
One awoke to espy the a A of the F, with nothing on but the wireless, delivering an espresso to One's bedside.
'And this is of note because?' One hears you enquire Dear Reader, 'surely this is de riguer in the grand scheme of things.'
Indeed it is, especially of late, as One is diseased in the extreme and plugged up with polyps.
Which leads me neatly on to the grave news that, overnight, One and the A of the F, have morphed into cast members of 'Last of the Summer Wine.'
'How so, Lovely One?' You opine en mass, 'when you, at least, remain a vision of youthful loveliness'.
Sadly, tis all smoke, mirrors, and No 7 Protect and Perfect, Dears.
The ugly truth is thus...
We no longer awake to greet one another in a frenzy of ardent kisses.
No, we now spend a goodly amount of time listing our aches and pains various, and administering Voltarol gel to stiff, aching body parts.
And no, when the soothing balm has done it's work and we are mobile in part, we don't ravish one another. No gentle caressing nor sweet nothing whispering occurs (anyway One would be required to holler sweet nothings into the A's good ear) rather, the A plays a few squares of online Soduko, to sharpen his dull mind, whilst One gently Bazukkas his verucca.

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