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Thursday, 14 May 2015

In which nobody's perfect. Not even One...

'Well what happened was...' began One, upon re-entering the withdrawing room and, not dissimilar to the shepherds, he was sore afraid.
He has acquired, of late, a sort of resigned look of horrified bewilderment when One appears looking sheepish, following the kind of accident that could happen to anyone, Dear Reader.
'What the feck have you done now?' Says he clutching the antimacasa on the back of the elderly gentleman's moss green velour recliner until his knuckles were the same ghostly shade as his moosh.
'Well, what happened was' continued One, bringing the shattered remains of an Eighteenth century chandelier that had, until recently, illuminated the long gallery,  out from behind One's back.
'How the feck did you manage that?' says he looking ashen.
One explained that One had inadvertently got the stand of the studio light, that had been erected in the gallery for photographic reasons, hooked between One's toes as One biffed in the general direction of the bog and brought it crashing down on the aforementioned chandelier.
It was fairly difficult, at the time, to make out exactly what he was saying, as the smoke alarm had started to go of, indicating the imminent arrival of a charred offering that we laughingly refer to as 'supper.'
'You really are a fecking liability,' he went on, listing the week's accidents that could happen to anyone, but happened to One.
'You boiled my favourite cashmere sweater, broke the door chimes,' etc etc
And so he went on, and on...
One got to the bit where One was being admonished for some culinary misdemeanor, when One turned tale and huffed off in the direction of the galley.
But not before inadvertently kicking over a glass of Red on the Persian rug...
Honestly, Dear Reader, it could happen to anyone.

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