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Monday, 16 February 2015

In which One's shrine is proposed...

V early in the morning and One is wide awake. The A of the F is snuffling and snuggling to my port side.
There simply is nothing more lovely in life than to wake up next to the one One loves and if the blighter doesn't stop that infernal snoring One shall smother him with a Tesco Home and Wear Value pillow.
Back to the Underground Lair later to write One's last will and testament.
'Whyfor?' One hears you collectively chorus, 'you will be fine'.
Well, One never knows, does One.
Boy shall inherit One's vast landed estate, obv, and as for the A of the F, he shall be bequeathed One's tumour, so recently hacked out of One by an apprentice Butcher from Morrison's Market Street.
It is to be hoped that the super-floo-us body part shall form the centre piece of the shrine he will erect in One's memory.
He shall lay there a single red rose with a droplet of morning dew, in the manner of a tear upon it's petals each and every morning.
Or at least One hopes he does, because the unromantic, stingy, fecker never bothered sending One any when One was alive.

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