One finally arrived, covered in the scars of a whole fecking week’s work, and the deaf git didn’t hear the doorbell. So, there One stood in the dead of night, shivering and melancholy.
Eventually, admitted, One discovered the delicious A of the F with nothing on but the wireless and his Delia Smith pinny, the lark’s tongues in aspic already simmering proffering a silver spoonful of Beluga and a flute overflowing with Bolly.
Sorry, Dear Reader, he’s all mine. You can’t have him. It’s taken me fifty six years to find him and he’s securely manacled to One’s soul.
‘Is there anywhere you’d like to go?’
‘Sleep,’ replied One, removing One’s shredded clothing and inspecting for teethmarks.
‘Tomorrow,’ continued he…
AND GUESS WHAT
He took me clothes shopping, didn’t moan about the time I spent faffing about and took me somewhere else when I couldn’t find what I wanted.
THE MAN IS A SAINT
AND HE’S ALL MINE – SOZ