Having met an immortal cold warrior on Saturday, I now find myself dealing with the dreary realities that crowd my undead life. The Jaguar Mk2 failed its MOT today and I have to cough up a ludicrous amount of money to get it back on the road. Until then Mange Tout will pace restlessly over creaking floorboards, deprived of his raison-d’être. The prospect of asking him to take me aboard a bendy bus will keep me confined to the environs of Holland Park until the car is returned.
I also found that Una has scrawled huge cocks all over the prints in my Aubrey Beardsley pornographic portfolio. This vandalism (for which, I can assure you, she has been soundly punished) was somewhat superfluous, as the illustrations themselves were populated with any number of huge cocks anyway.
Even worse than this wanton cultural desecration was the depressing sight of my housekeeper returning from Woolworth with a thoroughly indecent haul of discounted pick-and-mix. I notice the coconut and mallow mushrooms are favoured…
Ever one with an eye for a bargain, she has robbed the grave of the venerable high street retailer and even now she’s overdosing on e-numbers and sugars, showing Una exactly how she won Gold in the Munich Olympics. This is not a sight with which I feel I should scar the minds of my readers. However, I will go as far as to tell you that the occasional table and sofa will never quite the same…
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