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Monday, 16 January 2017

In which it's the thought that counts...

There's One, minding One's own bees tiddly wax, innocently marking down some moist bloaters, whilst perched on the step in the Emporium of Fine Foods, and, beginning to take on the acrid aroma of a back passage in Grimsby, when who should sashay in but Lovely Gordon in his new guise of Wivey Superhero about town...

'I've just had to apprehend a woman with two wolf hounds who was shitting in Silver Street!' says he frothing at the gusset with indignation (a moist patch on the rear of his Superhero costume where he'd sat on the kerb to block her passage.)

One, ascertaining that it was the wolf hounds and not the woman who was caught shitting-up Silver Street, led the blighter to the rear of the shop and pointed out the doggy doo bags for his delectation.

'I sent her up the Co-op for pooh bags' says he 'she said she'd just used the last one, a likely story, and do you know, she kept me waiting for twenty five minutes sitting on the sodding kerb minding the dogs!'

One let the lycra clad cove alight on the step and mopped his brow with £1 basics duster...

'When she came back she was brandishing a toilet roll and some handwash and with tears streaming down her cheeks she set about scrubbing the pavement,' he went on, 'so I went up that posh shop where the woman looks like Olive Oyl on Berocca and got a v small container of soapy water to assist her.  I was starting to feel guilty about accosting her.'

 'Well I know it's really annoying to see these ill-educated, web-footed locals letting their ghastly hounds crap all over the place, but you've got yourself in these kinds of jams before by poking yer beak in haven't you.  You should learn by experience and nip back later with a pressure washer and blast the shite down the drain,' offered One, frantically attempting to shut up shop and shear.

After a little breathe into a brown paper bag, One calmed the blighter sufficiently to send him on his way, hopefully to reach the calm of his cottage without further aggravation.

Just as One was exiting the Emporium, up slopes the shit-shovelling superhero brandishing a single item from a box of Famous Names Liquors - a miniscule Gin and Tonic.

'A small gift by way of thanks,' says he pressing the item into One's hand, 'but don't have it until you've finished work.'

Well really, One would hardly be rendered incapable by the amount of Gin it would take to fill a cavity in one of One's loose back teeth!  But still, I suppose it's the thought that counts.

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