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Friday, 6 March 2015

In which One is off to the bog...

I tell you, Dear Reader, The A of the F is a mind reader, or, at the very least, a reader of this tome...
He appeared in the withdrawing room, yester-eve, wearing a head torch and brandishing a coil of rope.
'I'm going in' shouts he 'and securing meself to yer left knee in case I have trouble emerging.'
One very nigh spilt me cracked tea cup of gin down me jamas.
He guffawed and slumped down into his elderly gentleman's moss green velour recliner and, with the theatrical flourish of a Magician producing a rabbit from a hat, whipped a thermos flask from a Tesco carrier.
'We're going to Pinkery Pond tomorrow' says he 'and we can stop along the way for coffee and a kitkat.'
At this precise mo, a 'Walks on Exmoor' tome was launched in One's general direction.
Upon investigation, the Pinkery Pond region was invitingly described as 'a very boggy area best walked when rain is but a distant memory.'
Pondering upon Tuesday's 'boot breaching' incident in the muddy terrain of the Fourteen Acre Wood, One ventured to suggest an alternative route, say, a stroll around the lingerie section of Barnstaple Marks and Spencer, but no, there's no reasoning with the blighter when he's on a 'get fit' extravaganza.
'Would you get into these?' Enquired the A, brandishing a ghastly pair of elasicated waist waterproof trousers in One's general direction.
'They'd fit, if that's what you're asking' countered One, 'but I've got a very Doris Day pair of black and white gingham cigarette capri pants that I plan to wear tomorrow.'
'I give up you stupid woman' says he and repaired to the galley to fill the thermos.

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