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Saturday, 28 May 2016

In which it is British Summer Time at ten to two...

There's One, see above, minding One's own bees-tiddly-wax, knocking off another masterpiece in One's chum's 'Previously Owned Stuff' emporium, when up sidles a hirsute cove, from oop North and says 'Are you Lovely One?'
Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs, thinks One, surely a cursory glance in One's gen direc indicates that One is indeed, Lovely!
Well, I 'spect that since the cove is more used to women swaddled in horse-hair shawls and sporting sparking clogs, the sight of One in One's Satdee frock was enough to make his hair, and Gawd knows there was enough of it, curl.
Any road up, One, always alert to the wishes of One's public, declared that One was, indeed, One and allowed the cove a moment of One's valuable time for a spot of adoration.


News of One's demise has been exaggerated, and One has merely been worn to a husk seeing to the unfortunate and needy to the degree that when One crawls back to the Underground Lair One has but time to down a pint of Pinot and flop into the truckle bed.

But, as One said, One is mindful of the needs of One's public and has returned to you freshly laundered, free from super-floo-us hair and looking, if One might make so bold, like an Angel fallen from above.

One has noticed, however, that there have been no enquiries as to reason One has fallen silent of late.  Don't you unwashed, selfish blighters spend any time thinking about One?  Have you abandoned your shrines and let One's memory fade?  

You see, the thing is, One was wondering if anything funny would ever happen again and One would simply shuffle from this mortal coil to meet One's maker with a handful of wet-wipes and a couple of pairs of examination gloves from the Shit-Face, when...
All of a sudden...
An invitation to sup at Lovely Gordon's arrived.

Obv., spending a solitary existence up the passage with only his knitted companion cat (I done it) for company, upon espying Lovely One, he positively fell upon One with a tempting offer of coffee, out of the Grouse pot, and Fortnum and Mason's chilli ginger biscwits.

Since bunnage has been orf the menu since the addition of the Admiral into One's sphere of influence, One grasped the biscwit opportunity with both beautifully manicured hands.

'A friend of mine only eats food with one sylable,' he began, appropos of nothing...
'Cake. Pie. Squid etc... He doesn't trust consumables with complicated names like macaroni.'
'mmmm,' countered One, masticating me Fortnum's chilli biscwit.  As with many of the Dear Thing's outpourings, there was no actual reply required.

Vera from the barge was up the passage conversing with My Little Pony who appeared to be taking a cat for a walk.  One has never been sure about Vera.  She has that disconcerting habit of jumping backwards when One speaks as if One were an enormous assailant intent on biffing her on the nose.  She, in fact, is rather an Amazonian article herself who looks as if she could do a body damage if she so desired.  Anyway, she always rather unnerves dear little Lovely One. One doesn't trust girls who wear those frightfully unsightly items of clothes: Jeans.  Wear a summer frock, why don't you and trip giddily up town to buy hand-baked bread and home-bottled jam.

Speaking of jam, a notice has appeared in the hall to the tune of 'save all your jam pots immediately and donate them to your leader forthwith.'  
One absolutely hates jam, but upon this command has been consuming scores of jars of the stuff and then hurling them with gay abandon in the glass re-cycling bin. Oh how meagre are the fun-times in the Lair of late... Ho hum

'Tis deffo British Summer Time as Clarks sandals, circa 1963, have been spotted at ten to two...