Why do people think I'm a monster? Strictly speaking, that should be a rhetorical question but I tried it out on the butcher this morning with bewildering results. I reckon he's developed Mad Horse Syndrome. Weeping with mirth, he was, rolling around in the sawdust, holding his sides and rambling on about irony and calling me a dumb Yankee. He's clearly not all there if he fails to recognise a fellow Cornish accent. He could have been pulling my legs, of course. Just to be on the safe side, from now on I'll buy me dripping and jars of chutney with the nice bits of gingham round the lid from Big Sainsbury's. That'll teach the scrofulous, wall-eyed tyke.
Speaking of our American cousins, we finally got the skids under Cheryl the Frighteningly Large Earwig, who has been deported back to the States. In some style, I may add; swathed in anchor chains in the hold of a specially converted super-tanker. It was beginning to look as if we would have to dob her in to Immigration but she put herself back on the radar after peeling the roof off the St Austell branch of Wilkinson with the ease of removing the lid from a yoghourt pot.
I shall bring you up to date with all the goss from the tin mine after I've had a pot noodle and a snooze. Actually, I'll probably be back to you at the weekend. No point in exhausting myself.
Groida sends his regards, I think, but I can't be absolutely certain since he'd taken to communicating in a grotesque, improvised semaphore, utilising sand castle flags, telephone directories, sherbet fountains, Plessey welding rods and a grubby old face flannel. Now do you understand my reluctance to keep you lot informed?
I can see that your burdens continue, despite the successful ejection of Cheryl from these shores. I have no idea what a Plessey welding rod is but I can imagine that in Groida's possession, and in combination with the other paraphernalia you listed, it might be best not to enquire further.
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