Monday, 10 October 2016
In which One has acquired cheesy feet...
Yes I know I moaned about it yesterday, but it's worth a minute or two's moaning monologue per day...
So, One replied...
'I shall be squeezing sausages. What are you doing?'
Let me explain, Dear Reader...
When darkness falls in the purveyor of fine grocery items, One marks down perishables and flogs 'em off at ridicliously reduced prices. If the Sausage Truffler from Milverton hasn't been in and bought the fecking lot, One, living in dire reduced circs, wacks 'em in a basket and perambulates them, forthwith, to the freezer in the Underground Lair.
Being, utterly 'snorkered up' One came upon the idea of knocking up a rake of pastry and fashioning some sausage rolls to ring the changes.
Ergo... Sausage squeezing.
Any road up, One snuggled down on the Louis Cans with aforementioned sausage rolls and feasted One's beadies upon Ross Poldark rolling a silk stocking up the leg of the v fortunate Demelza,
'Flippin' 'eck,' thought One, 'I could go a portion of that on a Sunday night,' and immediately telephoned the Home for Retired Seamen to enquire the whereabouts of the Admiral.
Fortunately the Admiral had just been administered his Sanatogen, and thus, he set forth on his motability scooter for the Underground Lair.
One, wishing to waste no time, had assembled One's elastic stockings, lit an incense burner and lay back on the Louis Cans awaiting his arrival.
'Blimey! I'll never get them up your fat thighs,' opined the Admiral as his gnarled digits fought in vain to roll the American Tan stockings up One's shapely calves.
One, who could detect the snagging of One's surgicals by the fungal fingernails of the Admiral, sought not to have One's reverie rudely interrupted and closed One's eyes to conjure up the image of Ross Poldark.
'Flippin' 'eck, what's that pong?' enquired he, recoiling as fast as an arthritic frame will allow, 'You ain't arf got cheesy feet!'
One, by now struggling to maintain the illusion, was mortally offended, but to be honest he did have a point.
Casting aside the stockings, blowing out the candle, One slipped the offensive plates of meat into me tartan zip up cozee booties and put the light on.
'It's Athletes foot if you must know,' huffed One, 'I have to stand up for eight hours at a time in the shop.'
'Athletes Foot! Athletes bleedin' foot!,' shrieked he, 'how the feck did you get anything athletic?'
Well, Dear Reader, that about put the tin hat on the proceedings. One repaired to the bathroom to administer some Scholl foot cream and left the blighter to let himself out.