Over-Earnestly Trousered Stances

Now, as the weekend is upon us, I turn away from car parks and put all my spanners back into the appropriate compartments. She gets dressed and then pours what remains of the custard down the drain before placing the seedless grapes back in the fruit dish. The working week is once again over for a couple of days.

It is time to pause this talk of goats and helicopters and diversity outreach co-ordinators, penguins and sexual deviance, for, as we all know, the world out there is a serious place, which looks with disdain on all those who would wish to dance through its ponderous days while laughing at the over-earnestness of its seriously-trousered stances.

We have left the stains of freedom over its self-important bed sheets, and left its pillowcases of pontification in complete disarray. We have let slip the hamsters of anarchy across its purposeful hours. And that can no longer be tolerated by the stern-faced Traffic Wardens of Meaningfulness.

So, now the Tax Inspectors of Staid Seriousness are massing at the borders of our small, frivolous, land, waiting, just waiting for me to dare to smear salad cream across her heaving breasts just one more time.

So, until we meet again in the cold early light of yet another Monday morning: Goodnight, ladies. Goodnight.