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Monday, 25 July 2016

In which One is wafted to hell...

That's me, that is, Dear Reader...
Yellow-bucketed up and perspiring like a stuck pig...
However, a directive has come that we are not to wear sleeveless tops, shorts, or anything low cut at the front, even on the most hot of days.
As usual this missive was worded in the most offensive of ways.  What is it with these people?
It made reference to people 'of all shapes and sizes' wearing sleeveless T-shirts and 'how would you like someone's sweaty armpit in your face.'

One, as always, exudes the aroma of Chanel No 5 and has never, ever sported a 'sweaty armpit.'

However, One's working hours have been re-jigged as requested...

Now, One can begin work half way through the day, thereby missing lunch, and leave work at 8.30pm, thereby arriving home too late to cook, so missing dinner.

How fortunate is One, Dear Reader?  One can now crawl home at 9.00pm and stuff down a sandwich, fall, exhausted into bed and then do it all again the next day!

'Tis  too much for the ageing and creaky-boned Lovely One...

What to do next?  For One shall doubtless be working for at least another ten years, if One is unfortunate enough to last that long.

One doesn't like the fact that One has become a sour-faced, whingeing old harridan, but there you are Dear Reader...

One generally 'bucks One's ideas up' eventually, but just in case: have the humane killer ready...

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