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Sunday, 8 March 2015

In which One is covered in mud...

One awoke to the strains of the Trumpet Voluntary being emitted from sur le quilt.
'Do you do any other instruments?' enquired One, I am particularly fond of a French Horn at the crack of dawn. They do need a lot of blowing though.'
Continuing in the same lascivious manner, One queried, 'What would you prefer? A cup of tea, or having a crumbled up Cadburys flake licked off the inside of yer left thigh?'
'Steady on Petunia,' says he 'I've just got to check the cricket score.'
And they say romance is dead.
Not so, Dear Reader, tis alive and kicking in deepest Devon.
One biffed off kitchenward for an Espresso...
'Don't forget the chocolate' called the A of the F.
As One limped toward the galley One pondered that One may have proven a little rash with One's proffered pandering, since One is suffering in the extreme following the four hour dawdle up to Pinkery Pond.
All was going tickety boo until One wandered briefly off piste and fell face down in a slimy bog.
One, sporting a liberal coating of sludge and sheep shite was escorted back to the car by the still pristine A of the F, who simply shook his head in horror as One chortled.
However, One can still suck the foam off the top of a Cappuccino on the counter in Costa Coffee from the entrance door, so I might give it a bash in a minute.

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