So, here One is again, Dear Reader, propped up in the golden sleigh bed in the second best suite at the Admiral of the Fleet’s gaff…
He is reading. This presents a problem of great magnitude for One as first thing in the morning One likes to partake of a little natter. Nothing of note you understand, merely any old thought that’s been ricocheting around One’s head throughout the night.
But no, silence must reign in order that the A can concentrate on yet another ‘Boy’s Own, tale of military types bashing each other up.
Nipped in to sneak a fag up the top of BF’s garden yesterday.
‘I don’t know how to open the lid,’ says One upon telling BFP about the ‘Engine Service’ light that had appeared on the Bugatti.
‘There’s no oil in the car, you daft bint,’ opined BFP.
Flippin’ ‘eck, that’s all One needs, thought One and gratefully accepted a donation from BFP’s store until One can save up for a bottle of One’s own.
Shoved off to do a day’s superannuated housework and person supervision after that.
‘Tis a mark of a civilised society that we take the utmost care of persons who are unable to do so themselves, and with that thought ringing in One’s ears, One spent the morning chasing a naked man up and down stairs and the afternoon biffing about the hills and valleys in a big blue bus.