Well, you know, that is just how it is sometimes. Sometimes, you just can’t get the accordions. It is disappointing for her, true. At least though, you did make the effort, so all that shoe polish was not entirely wasted. It did give you the chance to engage in a bit of midnight surveillance of the supermarket car park to see the herds of shopping trolleys in their natural habitat, grazing on the detritus left by the shoppers as they made their way home. Thos shoppers, no doubt, going back to homes replete with all the accordions that any sensuous woman could desire.
Still, you consoled yourself as you made your weary way back home to write up your nature-watching notes, that up until now, at least , she has shown very little interest in the erotic possibilities of the bagpipes to bring back a little romance into tired lives.
Having said that though, however, she still has not admitted that the crowbar and the matching ‘his ‘n’ Hers’ cowbells was not a mistake on her part. At least, the neighbours seemed to believe your claim that the late-night metallic ringing noises were just the result of a bout of emergency plumbing, not the four cowbells of the apocalypse as predicted by the adherents of that strange religion they adhere to. This despite the fact that none of the Saturdays in January brought about the End of Times as they’d so confidently predicted with all the smug glee of the self-righteous looking forward to watching their neighbours go up in flames as just and holy retribution for their ungodly interest in accordions.
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