Next weekend’s perambulation has already been planned, Dear Reader. (see above – me and ‘im)
A ‘coastal views’ special, as ordered by Lovely One.
One’s up for a bit of mooning about on the cliff top twisting me knicker elastic and biting me bottom lip. (Been watching that Poldark bloke) It should be illegal to be that handsome, Dear Reader.
‘You pick the walk,’ said the A of the F as he flung the ‘Best Walks on Exmoor’ tome in One’s general direction and settled back in the moss green velour, elderly gentleman’s recliner to pick his verruca.
One is becoming adjusted to the great outdoors as One nas complained pas last week – AT ALL – even when One tipped over and sunk into the sheep shite filled bog.
Unlike the A, who manfully stumbled along whilst being given jip by the Verruca-ca-ca…
‘Pain is a sensation and all sensations should be enjoyed,’ said the great Oaf. This directive, however, doesn’t extend to the delicate administration of a verruca removal operation performed by One.
‘You are not a Picky Picky Nurse!’ as Boy used to squeal when One attempted operations various on ailing body parts, ‘there’s no such thing!’
Sadly, even though One has researched Verruca-ca-ca removal on YouTube (incidentally always by fiendish girlfriend upon quivering boyfriends) The A has eschewed the offer of surgery. Upon sage advice from Boy, he has chosen to suffer rather than book an appointment with One’s Swiss Army Knife.
It must be some ghoulish gene in the female of the species that enjoys the gouging out of splinters/sebachious cysts/verruca-ca-cas, as all the informative YouTube clips feature squealing girlies performing the operations.
‘Twould appear that One shall be hanging One’s Nurse’s Uniform up for good as Boy hasn’t even had the decency to have acne like all the other boys.
Any road up, One did get to perform a small surgery upon Oneself, when, a couple of bottles of Cider acquired for the pending visit of Boy this evening, fell through a hole in me carrier and smashed on me foot. A v pleasant afternoon was spent gouging glass out of me foot and licking Thatcher’s Gold off the scullery floor.