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Tuesday, 11 October 2016

In which One's ankles ache...

Saturday's child works hard for a living...
Ain't that the truth, Dear Reader.
Why didn't One do something sensible when One was young?
A transferable career. Say, hairdressing or some such.
Instead One chose engineering drawing and in the dim distant past we used mapping pens and linen.
After One had nurtured Boy the world had moved on to pooter aided design and left One behind.

Woe is One.

Don't get One wrong, Dear Reader, One actually likes shop work. After all no one bites, punches or poops themselves thus far.

But One hadn't envisaged a life of humping crates of beer at the cusp of retirement.

Stoptober definitely hasn't come to Wivey.

One's poor old legs look like they've been knitted out of bobbly wool. After eight hours standing up One's feet are v tired and One's creaky ankles about to give way.

Must ramp up the painting on One's days orf.
Got a couple of hares on the easel facing to be painted at the mo.

Even thoughts of being a 'lady in a van' are seemingly out of reach since The Underground Lair appears impossible to sell.

One, however, is not melancholy in the least, but striving to prevail.

After waking up thinking 'oh shit. I'm still alive' the world looks a better place after the administration of a snorker sandwich and three espressos.

At the end of the month when One gets paid, One shall acquire some fresh seasonal vegetables though, since living off marked down snorkers has rendered One something of a Buddha.

Maybe that's why me ankles ache.

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