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Wednesday, 14 September 2016

In which One is likely to expire on Sunday...

'Tis One's birthday today, Dear Reader, and look what arrived by courier from the Admiral's Rest Home for Senile Sea-Farers...

The most scrum-diddly-umptious Birthday cake just pour moi!

The sugar-craft roses were whittled by his gnarled old digits out of sugar paste.  Apparently Mary Berry pops in of an afternoon and holds a baking masterclass for those inmates who are still reasonable compus mentos. 

Any road up, One is chuffed to little mintballs with it and it's lovely diaphanous bow fashioned from the feathery light outer covering of a Tena Pant (unused of course)

Can only show the front view, since the poor old dab fell face down on the back having exhausted himself to the point of double incontinence trying to get the tasty treat ready for One's big day.

'Tis a v large cake and One has no chance of finishing it all since, as you know, Dear Reader, One is all alone in the world so shall be singing 'Happy Birthday to One,' all on One's little old lonesome, then scarfing down a slice or two.

One likely shan't even finish the blighter afore One shuffles off this mortal coil as One has inadvertently accepted a new position whereupon One is required to work two fifteen hour days one after the other this week.

'Why do you want the job?' they enquired.
'I'm fed up with twelve and a half hour shifts,' replied One.

Can it be that they thought One wanted even fecking longer days?

One is of a mind to think that the blighters are all the fecking same!

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