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Thursday, 14 July 2016

In which mushy peas are consumed...

How joyous must a life be: spent in the pursuit of trousers.

Following a luncheon with One's dear chum M and Aged P in the dogged-up Bear (what is it with these rabid canine fanciers? They get all sniffy and defensive when you remove their wandering dog's snout from...)
A.      Yer twinkle
B.       Yer fish supper.
We set sail once again for Marks and Spencer in Taunton, but not before I'd been sent back to the charity shop for the second choice handbag (first choice having been previously purchased) and to the Co op for a catering pack of Gaviscon following the consumption of too large a luncheon.

'I loathe mushy peas,' opined Aged P when perusing the menu.
'Don't 'ave 'em then,' hissed One through gritted teeth.
'What's Catch of the Day?' asked she, 'do you think it's fish?'
'No, probably a fecking bison caught outside the Chemist! What do you think.'
'There's no need to be like that!' Sniffed the silly old bat.
But, there is, Dear Reader, there is.

One approached the bar to order the food....
'One catch of the day,' said One, 'but Mother doesn't like mushy peas.'
'Would you prefer garden peas, or perhaps salad?' volunteered the barmaid.
'Oh go on, I'll have the mushy peas,' countered Aged P.
One's gob dropped open and the barmaid sniggered.
'Are you paying for it?' she enquired.
'Oh yes,' said One, 'today and for the rest of my life.'

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