YouTube - TedandTheBlondeMafia's Channel
Mr and Mrs Fairman, and the microwaved Aye-aye are proud members of The Caravan Club, and Mr, spends most of his life cleaning and polishing his beast of an RCV, whilst perfecting his comedy routine. They must have gone off on their travels, because "the sheep" and I got off on our walk without bumping into him, which was just aswell, because I was seriously not in the mood for him today.
I was up at 6, and wanted to take the mafia out early, as I had lots to do. I left the pair of them in bed while I fed the chicken (who's in "hospital" in the attic, until she is better), and sorted out Pella, the senile old cat, who spends most of her life asleep in the bathroom. I delivered room service to the hen of corn, mealworms, Weetabix, and some chopped up lettuce, opened a sachet of foul smelling fishy stuff for Pella, checked the snoring Spins, and went and made coffee.
Five minutes later, two sleepy girls arrive in the kitchen, so I opened the door to let them out for a wee, and noticed the distinctive smell of cat food as they walked past. Went back upstairs to refeed the cat, and looked in on hen, and apart from a few grains of corn, her entire breakfast was also inside two bloody Spinones.
Then the man who's just moved in next door felt the need to say goodmorning, so I grunted, and wished Mr and Mrs Burb still lived there. They were far more entertaining. Mrs Burb wasn't well, and often told the entire village what she thought of Tony Blair, and his cabinet (who between them have apparently sired every illegitimate child worldwide) out of her bedroom window. When the weather was warm, she'd wander down to her shed stark naked except for a pair of pink slippers, but as Mr Burb had an aversion to cutting the grass, and Mrs Burb was very short, her modesty, and my gag reflex were fairly well protected. So yeah, I miss Mrs Burb, and would swap her anyday, with her pressure washer obsessed replacement, who is far too cheerful on a Monday morning for my liking.
I also decided today that I hate Henry, he came to live here after Mr Dyson choked to death on plaster dust, and rubble. Henry is not as obedient as Mr Dyson, and is completely incapable of walking in a straight line. My dislike of him is slightly irrational, but I don't care, his inane smile is all the reason I need, for hoping he's soon gasping his last on a diet of spinone hair and mortar dust.
I was up at 6, and wanted to take the mafia out early, as I had lots to do. I left the pair of them in bed while I fed the chicken (who's in "hospital" in the attic, until she is better), and sorted out Pella, the senile old cat, who spends most of her life asleep in the bathroom. I delivered room service to the hen of corn, mealworms, Weetabix, and some chopped up lettuce, opened a sachet of foul smelling fishy stuff for Pella, checked the snoring Spins, and went and made coffee.
Five minutes later, two sleepy girls arrive in the kitchen, so I opened the door to let them out for a wee, and noticed the distinctive smell of cat food as they walked past. Went back upstairs to refeed the cat, and looked in on hen, and apart from a few grains of corn, her entire breakfast was also inside two bloody Spinones.
Then the man who's just moved in next door felt the need to say goodmorning, so I grunted, and wished Mr and Mrs Burb still lived there. They were far more entertaining. Mrs Burb wasn't well, and often told the entire village what she thought of Tony Blair, and his cabinet (who between them have apparently sired every illegitimate child worldwide) out of her bedroom window. When the weather was warm, she'd wander down to her shed stark naked except for a pair of pink slippers, but as Mr Burb had an aversion to cutting the grass, and Mrs Burb was very short, her modesty, and my gag reflex were fairly well protected. So yeah, I miss Mrs Burb, and would swap her anyday, with her pressure washer obsessed replacement, who is far too cheerful on a Monday morning for my liking.
I also decided today that I hate Henry, he came to live here after Mr Dyson choked to death on plaster dust, and rubble. Henry is not as obedient as Mr Dyson, and is completely incapable of walking in a straight line. My dislike of him is slightly irrational, but I don't care, his inane smile is all the reason I need, for hoping he's soon gasping his last on a diet of spinone hair and mortar dust.
No comments:
Post a Comment