Put the eggcups back in the gazebo, Henrietta, there is marmalade afoot and we’ll need all the spaniels, come teatime. Still, at least the digestive biscuits are not on the rampage, now that our bus timetables are all back on the mantelpiece and that string you once had an affair with is safely back in Llandudno, living as a semi-professional chocolate diviner.
Oh, how I remember the azaleas and how we would taunt the social worker with them as we rode our tandem down to the chip shop, even though the stock-control assistant did not know how to recalibrate the cheese mittens without the instruction manual.
Now, putting all that to one side – slightly to the left of the semi-bewildered assistant supermarket manager - let us go out and butter our own albatrosses this evening as the sun sets off across the far end of your bookcase. Then we will talk deep into the night of lupins and stockbrokers like any couple who were so deep in love their thighs ached and throbbed as though they had run three marathons through ever-thickening treacle whilst being chased by a pack of rabid wolves keen on selling them double-glazing.
But still the stoats will howl at the moon, until we – once again – read to them more engrossing stories from Des O’Connor’s autobiography.
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