Bloody Amorous Accountant keeps messaging One via POF. Not as a possible suitor, Dear Reader, he is just a chum of One’s who is trawling the ether for desperate middle-aged women and wants tips for the enticing of such sorts.
One replies. One is a polite kind of person, which opens the floodgates for lonely Bunnagers looking for someone to accompany them to tea rooms various for tea and buns.
At first One would reply with something like…
‘I am currently dating a splendid old gentleman. Would you care to be placed on my substitutes bench in case it doesn’t work out?’
Now, deeply entrenched with the Admiral, One doesn’t even acknowledge the in-box full of rancid old roués. Anyway, One is half the size of the One that appears in the photograph advertising Oneself and One’s accompanying pussy is deceased and now serves as a toilet roll holder, see above.
The Admiral has returned to Blighty with a Croatian Crookage. Probably lavatory linked lurgee as One was, only last night pondering the toilette arrangements of six beer-swilling, retired policemen aboard a floating retirement home.
One would wager there wasn’t a Toilet Duck Fresh Disc in sight! And given that they all took only hand luggage, a catering pack of Cilit Bang Grime and Lime was pretty much out of the question.
Where does all the policeman pooh go, Dear Reader? What is the fate of the Sargent's solids? Whatever happens to the Detective’s doings and the Constable’s crap?
Does it get discharged into the briny and float off, flotsam like to litter up a green flag beach somewhere?
Does it get stored in a big container and have to be emptied by a poor cabin boy?
One can’t dwell on that all day. One has the morning off and intends to finish the landscaping of the grounds,
Six solid hours One dug the garden yesterday and it looks a picture…