What Ho!
With grace and breeding, you firmly grasp the handle of the bell on your nightstand and give it a delicate shake.
"Cor, could you shake that b---- thing just a little bit more? I'm not certain that Whitehall can't be hearing you now. Which as, I'm a-coming now with the b----- breakfast now any road. D---- cold, you'd think by now, I'd know better....."
Timpson's soliloquy is broken by his tramping into your boudoir with the promised eggs and b. Flaccid and cold, true, but most gratifying, and you suspect that even old Timpson's rugged, possibly criminal countenance of two out of three score and ten might have softened a bit with emotion at the sight of the wonderous morning.
Timpson coughs like a delicate rhinoceros. "A Miss MacGillicuddy to see your worship" Is that pity in his eyes?
Regardless, your blood runs cold as one of those polar explorers like Sheckle Town or Odd Bird. Or some such. Cold, anyway, is what your blood most certainly is. The Miss Mac G. is vile creature up there with that lass in the Bible who went about nailing blokes' heads to their tent floors. She is an American of the most terrible kind- she is a charitable volunteer. And she has her sights on you, as both cash pot and theoretical co-volunteer.
No male version of Jane Adams, you- you decide to do the honourable thing and
"Cor, could you shake that b---- thing just a little bit more? I'm not certain that Whitehall can't be hearing you now. Which as, I'm a-coming now with the b----- breakfast now any road. D---- cold, you'd think by now, I'd know better....."
Timpson's soliloquy is broken by his tramping into your boudoir with the promised eggs and b. Flaccid and cold, true, but most gratifying, and you suspect that even old Timpson's rugged, possibly criminal countenance of two out of three score and ten might have softened a bit with emotion at the sight of the wonderous morning.
Timpson coughs like a delicate rhinoceros. "A Miss MacGillicuddy to see your worship" Is that pity in his eyes?
Regardless, your blood runs cold as one of those polar explorers like Sheckle Town or Odd Bird. Or some such. Cold, anyway, is what your blood most certainly is. The Miss Mac G. is vile creature up there with that lass in the Bible who went about nailing blokes' heads to their tent floors. She is an American of the most terrible kind- she is a charitable volunteer. And she has her sights on you, as both cash pot and theoretical co-volunteer.
No male version of Jane Adams, you- you decide to do the honourable thing and