Anyone for prunes and smoked brisling? Shaft number five is piled high with boxloads of them after last week's nocturnal salvage mission. Oh, and pitted black olives in brine and tins which are almost certainly corned beef (the labels were washed off).
The manifest said fruit, so I don't know what went wrong, unless that gormless zero from Rhyl has been moonlighting as a shipping clerk. Talking of whom, he's sent me a present of mint-flavoured rock fashioned into wee pink shrimps. What a nice gesture! I'll try one out on Bro first, in case they've been steeped in toilet medicine.
Which brings me back to the prunes. If it wasn't for them, I'd be getting seriously clogged up, what with cafe fry-ups for breakfast, carvery lunches, clotted cream teas, fish & chip suppers and between-meal snacks of the best pasties in the world (with meat up one end and jam up the other).
I really do wish you were here, to see how smart I look in my kiss-me-quick hat (adapted with holes for the antennae). No takers as yet. Frankly, I think they are all a bit mental round here. Even the polis are strange. I asked one if it was all right for Bro and me to have our afternoon nap on the floral clock. No answer. He just stood there like a statue and tinkled in his trousers. Inbreeding. I'd stake a gross of Morton's cherry pie filling on it.
Anyway, if you fancy taking pot luck with any of our waterlogged windfall (I was going to put "cargo trouve" but I can't find the acute accent on this bloody keyboard) you know how to get in touch. Keep the faith! Yer Happy Holidaymaker, Ambrose.
No comments:
Post a Comment