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Sunday, 26 March 2017

In which I venture forth...

Yesterday I dragged my chemically enhanced carcas onto the mean streets.
I chose early evening in the vain hope I would be able to perambulate hither and thither without encountering anyone who might make the innocent enquiry, 'how are you?'

Not that I ever reply anything other than, 'jolly fine', but I do look like a mad old bat, which, of course, I am.

And anyway, persons abroad do read this shite and therefore know that I speak with fork tongue.

However, isolation wasn't forthcoming and sidling down Silver Street, I chanced upon Lovely Gordon.
In one hand he carried a Fortnum and Mason grocery bag and in the other a worryingly, moist looking dog poop bag, tied with a perfect bow to which he clung.

Knowing he leads a hound-negative existence, I imagined he'd had another run-in with an indigenous article allowing her shit-machine to foul the pavement.

But no, finding Taunton Deane's refuse bins to be aesthetically displeasing, he opts to eschew their use and to transport, what turned out to be a bag of putrid broccoli spears, to the bin in Jubilee Gardens.

That's one sure thing about dear old Wivey: no matter how bonkers One becomes, One still has a chance of encountering a madder cove, on it's thoroughfares.

After sharing tales of retirement and care workers who turned out to be 'lady-boys' he strode off toward the Co op mumbling to himself.

'Oi!,' I heard him holler from ten paces. 'Have you heard the one about the man with five penises?'
'His underpants fit like a glove.'


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