If you were wondering why news reports haven't been coming in of the cataclysmic destruction of the Dorchester Hotel, it's because Ambrose's Marauders have been laid up with colds. I don't think driving up and down the coast on windy nights pretending to be a lighthouse has done me and Bro any good, but I lay the blame firmly at the door of the pestilent Groida. I have no evidence to support this accusation, but it makes me feel better.
Needless to say, the great goof has made a three-act opera out of his own malaise. True, he is a martyr to croup but I don't see the necessity for him to smear his hideous thorax with a mixture of Swarfega and wormwood. It's like sharing a gaff with something recently exhumed.
Auntie Pamela has been feeding us up with her legendary seaweed broth which could wipe out the plagues of Egypt, so hopefully we will be back to our version of normal very soon. In the mean time I am trying to overcome a case of writer's block and get a bend on with the panto script. I shall do a Marcel Proust, plump up me pillows and suck pensively on a stick of rock. Martians. Yes, they are always popular. We'll have a chorus of Martians in it ...
No comments:
Post a Comment