Spilt some Brasso on the bally carpet.
I was only buffing up the county shields, and the kids' school trophy.
It was hardly worth the ensuing panic.
Mrs.Mac is on one of her residential poetry weekends.
Can't see the point myself.
Full of libidinous types, who think daffodils are a deterrent to modern warfare.
Telephone-ordered an Indian takeaway.
Disappointedly a little greasy.
Uncorked the damson wine - a gift from Lionel on hearing the news about my polyp.
Lionel's very active in the autumn months.
Industrious.
Found myself watching that Gak Won fellow on the goggle-box.
Terribly anxious for a heavy-set colonial.
Made me feel slightly uneasy.
The BBC news was full of Fabio Costello's departure.
Good riddance I say. Ruddy Johnny Foreigner.
About time the sweet FA did something about all these migrant workers.
Why I didn't carefully spread out yesterday's Mail-on-Sunday I will never know?
A huge stain. Massive. Shaped like Malaya before the uprising.
Probably have to forego the 'no-claims' on this one.
And still no idea as to how The Moghul cooks their ladies' fingers?
Were they supposed to weep so sadly?
Mrs.Mac's back tomorrow.
She'll have a few answers.
No doubt.
Fine filly.
(Very similar in stature to Lowestoft John).
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