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Friday, 24 April 2015

In which One summarises a momentous week…

netball

The close of a momentous week, Dear Reader…

One finds Oneself re-evaluated from being ‘too posh to clear up pooh’ to being christened ‘Jacqueline Dee’ as One apparently delivers utterly hilarious statements with a dead pan face.

Thus far

One shock

Two weird dreams

One should still play netball

The shock – Have found out, via Facebook, that one of One’s erstwhile wine guzzling, chain smoking chums is running in the London Marathon. This makes One feel inadequate in the extreme, since One had intended to lead a chaste life in the scoff and pinot department in the absence of the Admiral and re-appear as a svelte love-goddess upon his return.  What actually happened was that One didn’t walk to work once, ate loads of chip positive ‘dinners’ and inhaled a goodly proportion of the European Wine Lake.

Two weird dreams -

Dream one – One was horrified to find, during aforementioned dream, that One had grown an enormous willy.  Not only that, but it had the habit of becoming erect at most inconvenient moments beneath One’s diaphanous, chiffon, Chloe Tea Dress.  Upon googlerisation of ‘willy growing dreams’ One has discovered that One has become in touch with One’s ‘animus’ which, in a nutshell, (geddit) means that One is in perfect harmony with One’s masculine side.  Further investigation unearthed that this means One is perfectly capable of organising One’s entire life without the assistance of a bloke.

Hoo-fecking-ra

Dream two – One of One’s non-verbal charges sidled up to One and said…

‘Oi, don’t tell anyone, but I can actually talk.  I’m only telling you because I like you.’

Flippin’ ‘eck thought One, I’d hate to be someone you don’t like, as she sauntered off with a handful of One’s golden tresses and 4”x4” chunk of skin off me right forearm.

As for still playing netball, One was the captain of the netball team at Icknield Juniors, Dear Reader…

One was presented with the gift of a handful of poop which One expertly lobbed across the room straight down the lavatory.

The Admiral of the Fleet would be amazed at that particular feat since One can’t even get One’s empty fag packet into the bin at two paces.

One shall forthwith attach lavatory seats to all refuse receptacles and nail the wire waste paper baskets to the A’s oak panelled drawing room walls at netball hoop height.

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