The Osteopaths of Doom dance naked across the indifferent car parks of your darkest desires, while feral stockbrokers haunt the deepest shadows of your housing estate nightmares with the Spanners of Disaster clenched so tightly in their muddied paws. We have seen the nature documentaries of so many dark doings and we know - only too well - never to touch any small rodent with our touching sticks.
Yes, dear, dear, Gladys - it has come to this. Now we must don the shapeless cardigans of retirement and shuffle off together towards those endless Post Office queues that have so haunted our darkest nights. We are young no longer and the time has come for us to turn our backs on the vainglories of youth and learn to shun the more athletically exacting of our sexual imaginings, especially those involving gymnasium equipment, or the sprightlier of the smaller furry mammals.
Soon, my dear Gladys, we too will be little more than memories lost down the back of the Sofa of History, never to be found again.
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