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Wednesday, 4 January 2017

In which it's boring...

Even the stalwart drunks of the town have forsaken the Purveyor of Fine Foodstuffs and all there was to be done last night was polish the grimy fingerprints off the glass doors and clean away the mud and shite walked in on farmer's boots.

It's all a frightful bore, Dear Reader...


On a lighter note, a couple of AP isms...

'I hate that bloody wet room. My bath mat gets soaking wet'.

One did try to point out that a bath mat wasn't required in a wet room, but was sworn at.

'I like that stair lift. Even if I'm upstairs and its at the bottom I can press a button and it comes up.'

One did enquire as to how she'd got to the top without it and was informed that she'd crawled up.

Go figure!

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