There you have it, Dear Reader, Heddons Mouth, where we actually went for a walk…
Sadly not one of the A of the F’s fablious photographs since One’s pooter is refusing to accept them.
We biffed off into the wilds, the A with his camera, looking eminently edible in his waxed jacket and One with no make up, two pairs of strides and a walking stick, looking absolutely ghastly. Heaven only knows what he sees in One, but ‘tis obv to all he lives to serve. Similarly, One would give him my last Rolo, or anything else, come to that.
One attempted to go off piste but was dragged back by the A who is still traumatised by One sinking into the bog last week and is taking no chances.
‘You’re going to have to learn to tie your own bootlaces eventually,’ says he securing One into the blighters to minimise the chances of One tumbling over the cliff edge.
There were indeed, many many, opportunities for tripping over, but One remained upright all day much to the relief of the Darling A of the F.
This morning One rose early and biffed off to the JobCentre to ‘sign on’ having earned feck all from painting for so long now that One is deeply in the do-do.
Bugger my Hat – when I got home there was a message on the answering machine giving me a start date for a job I applied for about six hundred years ago.
The thing is, Dear Reader, One shall be working every other weekend and shall therefore have to forbid the A of the F to leave the Manor. One can’t risk him wandering about the moors being handsome and getting picked up by some other middle aged desperado like One.