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Friday, 28 April 2017

In which they're not worth a tuppeny feck...

Popped in to see the purveyor of previously owned treasures yesterday (and my paintings)

A grim month has been had by all.  Definitely not retiring to the Bahamas any time soon and shall be spoon-feeding wasted shadows until I need to 'get a room.'

Have been dreaming of poor deceased vile ex husband these past few nights...

Last night he was picking ME up from work.  Huh! Ain't that the fecking story of my life!  Anyway, he had Boy in the back of a sort of ancient looking racing car, not strapped in.

The night before, I dreamt we'd had a further child: Julie, I'd named her for some obscure reason, although I had just spent a thrilling day hollering 'Sound of Music' songs at a less than appreciative audience of bewildered beings.

Anyway, I digress, back to 'Julie'...

Left in sole charge of Boy and Julie, vile, deceased, ex-husband, (I, at work of-fecking-course) had panicked when Julie was wet and attempted to dry her off in the microwave, thereby killing her.

Obviously I was a bit miffed when I got home from work, but the six o'clock alarm woke me before I could beat the shite out of the idiot.

Ah well, even my dreams are inhabited by the sort of useless eejits who've cluttered up my waking hours.

You know the sort, Dear Reader, they think their cock will drop off if they were to undertake any menial housework task.

But, as our small, ugly gathering of disillusioned, late middle-aged ladies (arms folded in the manner of Les Dawson) agree on a weekly basis: none of them are worth a tuppeny feck after they pass forty.

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