In Want of a Wife

Of course, as is well known – at least by those who know such things – that a man with his own collection of newt and salamander tanks must be in want of a wife. It is just that most women would rather it was not them forced to make this – ultimate – sacrifice, and will have at least one friend – who they cannot stand – who they fell will be eminently more suited to the role.

Still, that - even though it does stand in the position usually afforded to the leading paragraph – need not concern us here as there are more important matters afoot. So far afoot, indeed, that they are halfway up the leg and are making serious inroads into the thigh region. Therefore some alacrity of purpose must – I'm afraid – be our watchword this fine... not too unreasonable... well, this morning/afternoon/evening/night*.

The only thing is... well, I seem to have lost the bit of paper upon which I wrote done this piece of vital information – hence the subtle (or not) attempt to divert attention away from this slight hiccup in proceedings with an opening paragraph which bears little or – indeed – no relation to the rest of the... whatever this turns out to be.

Still... until I can find the piece of paper or remember which, with what remains of my mind – as you know – is somewhat unlikely, then we will just have to think of something else to do....

So, if any single or unattached ladies would like to form a queue over by the left sidebar, I will take them all on a fascinating tour of my rather enviable – and very sexy - collection of newt and salamander tanks.

 

*delete whichever is inapplicable