Google+ Followers

Follow by Email

Friday, 9 September 2016

In which One farts...

Long, long ago when One had known Vile Husband for but a short while he enquired of One...
'Don't you ever fart?'
Well, of course, Dear Reader, One hadn't broken the sound barrier, One is of a mind to eschew bodily emissions for as long as possible, when beginning a new coupling.

Obv, having married the blighter and issued forth progeny, One ripped off a fair few over the decades.

Similarly, having spent a goodly amount of time with The Admiral, on his frequent visits from the home for retired sea-farers, One has emitted the occasional parp, following the consumption of a polystyrene cup of curry sauce all over me chips.

Three farts in 27 months, in fact.  Making the gestation period of each, that of a human child.

Obv, their piquantcy, fermented over the passing of many a moon, has rendered them paint strippers.

'Kin Ada!' snorted the A, 'That bastard's got claws!'
Granted, One could have readily sewn a button on it, but, Dear Reader, The Admiral is the source of many an inhuman emission from both ends.

One is regularly to be found hot footing it down the Anderson Shelter of a night, when One realises that 'twas not an Ack-Ack gun in the boudoir, but a shell-shock rendering farty-bottom from the salty old sea-dog himself.

Why, just last night, One had to put a wet hanky over me face to avoid choking, and as for the snoring...

Some nights he can suck the drawers clean off me Armoire.

No comments: