Liquidation Of Our Assets

Once you have found the cheese of your dreams, my little stock cube we will go out dancing around the structural engineers once again. I have held your tadpole and you have filled in the tax returns of all those itinerant musical politicians who gather each evening under the orange glow of the streetlights to sing songs of legendary expense claims and the mellow thighs of research assistants in sun-dappled second homes.

Now we have our own pomegranates, though, and we no longer need to gather the dried apricots so close to our bosoms, well, so close to your bosom. Although, if ever a lady deserved to be buried up to her neck in dried apricots then you are – indeed – that lady. Never before have I seen such wanton lewdness in relation to dried fruit before, and I’ve been to Leominster several times.

Now, although, our wainscoting begins to show its age, we are only as young as the trainee nurse we feel during any fully-consensual game of strip Ludo in the field out beyond the ring road. There was a time my little paperclip when you and I would walk naked through the supermarkets of all our desires, never tarrying too long by the freezer cabinets of frozen promises, but instead gambolling down the aisle of possibility like two young lambs on some sharp-sunned spring morn.

Ah, but now the stockbroker awaits and our investments have all underperformed for too long now; perhaps, my little treasury tag, liquidation of our assets is all that awaits us.