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Sunday, 4 December 2016

In which door number four reveals the allure of One...

Behind door number four, Dear Reader, is the angelic face of your very own Lovely One...

For in amongst the toothless, weather beaten, in-bred, back-pack wearing female population of this sleepy backwater, One's everlasting, natural loveliness shines like a Christmas Tree star...

'Steady on, ' I hear you scoff, Dear Reader, 'surely you must realise you've gorn orf with the passage of time?'

Well, you'd think so, wouldn't you?

Maybe it's the failing eyesight of the septagenarian customers in The Purveyor of Fine Grocery emporium, perhaps it's the result of years of over indulgence of Thatchers Finest Cider, or even the light glinting off the bar-code reader as One scans twenty fags, but One has clearly still 'got it.'

Well, got it for at least two of the local ne'er do well drunkards, who, One has just been informed, are in fact, brothers.

One, who One first encountered shortly after arriving in town, was draped over a dog pooh bin outside a local hostelry, and upon espying Lovely One, hollered 'Oi, you're lovely, you are, will you marry me?'

One, still retaining the Hampstead Village yummy mummy air, shot off as quickly as One's sturdy little legs could carry One.

The other, whom One had hired to clean One's chimney when One lived in the Big House, upon hearing that One rather liked the aroma of soot, replied...
'Ang on Missus, I'll just smear me naked body with it.'

Since One has resided in the Underground Lair One has managed to swerve the sweep, but still lights the fire of the other brother, for, tis he who makes a nightly visit to the Purveyor of Fine Grocery items merely to gaze upon One.

'Ere, you're lovely, you are, standing there with your blonde, curly hair,' says he as he staggers over to the hot food counter to purchase a 'marked down to 10p' pasty for his tea.

One has implored One's teenage work colleague to head him off at the pass, but the little dear merely guffaws as he considers this nightly spectacle 'entertainment.'

Last evening, expecting a visit from One's unwanted amour, One nipped down the back of the shop to mark down the almost out of date fish, hoping the aroma of moist tuna might mask the heady aroma of One, but to no avail.

One's colleague, for once, shouted, 'Oi, mate, you can't come in here harassing the staff!' But 'twas no good, he staggered past him, weaving in and out of the Bawdens cake delivery, hollering, 'You can't keep me away from her. She's my baby!'

So there you have it, Dear Reader, One hasn't lost One's legendary allure with the passage of time.

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