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Sunday, 31 July 2016

In which One slunk back into the shadows...

That's next door, that is, Dear Reader...
The summer months are a dangerous time for your very own delicious Lovely One...

Every fecking time One ventures into the grounds one, or two little mutant heads appear over the fence to deliver some scintillating nugget of information that, frankly, ONE COULD HAVE FECKING LIVED WITHOUT, you eejits!

Even at 5.30am, yes that's when One rises to prepare for the Shit-Face, when One is bidding good morrow to Trevor (a toad that lives in a Le Crueset lasangne dish under the watercress urn) One is scared the beejeebers out of by the male of the pair appearing like a fiendish gnome in One's air space to slash the divine silence in two.

Why, after One has spent twelve and a half hours shovelling shite, dodging punches and being spat at, bitten and pinched for me trouble, One ventures, on tippy-toes, into the garden with a green tea and a mogadon, they fecking appear as if by magic to bore the tits off One.

'We bin 'a Waaws,' says he appearing like a ghoul in One's reverie, 'you bin there?'
'Oh that's jolly nice,' says One, 'we went to look at the Cathedral a few weeks ago.'
'No, not Waaws,' he retorted 'W-a-l-e-s.'
'Ah, yes,' says One, 'many times.'

One firkled diligently with One's climbing rose, in an attempt to inform the cove that One was in dire need of solitude...
The cove bumbled down the steps...
'RESULT' thought One and resumed firkling...
Suddenly, without warning, One's silence was shattered by the sound of Puffing-bleeding-Billy above One's head...
One shot up receiving a thwack upon One's divine head from the Tom Thumb tomato basket...
Gazing up One was confronted by the cerebrally-challenged item brandishing a biro...
'What do yer think of that!' says he, beaming in a satisfied manner, 'it's the sound of a train in a pen!'
'Gosh,' thought One, 'there really is no suitable retort to that.'

                                                                             ~

But the most intimate intrusion of all happened this very morn, Dear Reader...
There sat One with the French doors flung wide, taking advantage of the natural light to harvest me super-floo-us beard, wearing nothing but me 'Dooreen' brassiere for the coverage of the elderly envelope flap tit, and a pair of Spanx that had rolled down to nestle 'neath a roll of lard into One's Cesarian scar and the bugger appeared again!

One, aghast at the intrusion, expected the cove to exit pretty sharpish, given the unclothed nature of One, was nonplussed to have a broad bean plant proffered to One...

'What do you think I should do with that?' enquired he.

Fortunately One is a lady and therefore didn't give the obvious answer, One simply repositioned One's rolled down Spanx and slunk back into the shadows.  

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