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Fish story - My hour for tea is half-past five, and my buttered toast waits for nobody.
hellblazer06
hellblazer06
Fish story

Everyone has a fish story, or rather a hail story, but not me. Apparently it thundered and stormed and dropped so much ice o the city that football stadiums were blanketed, ice flows washed down the river, people went snow boarding. And I slept through it all. I was unwells. Also slept through the dawn service, to my eternal shame. Very unwells.

Ah well. At least Sunday unwells brought forth the box sets (I tried Netflix but it wasn’t happening). Still with The Champions, but I’m a sucker for mad voodoo monks running amok in Cornwall. Not to mention a particularly slithery Donald Sutherland showing up in another voodoo episode.

Such lurid televisual treats, and it’s amazing how much fabulous British telly in the 60s was made by blacklisted Americans, including Mr Sam Wanamaker, who also gifted the world with the Globe Theatre, which is a joy, an absolute joy. I wonder what gifts those weasels who sat in judgement have given us? Nothing good, I’ll wager.

Anyways, I was happy, I had my boys. Oh, I really had my boys. Sunday night gave us Jamie Fraser doffing trou in Outlander to fix the water mill and the titular Ross Poldark shedding shirt in the now infamous scything scene. Oh my.

Of course, it’s wrong to objectify the boys. Fixing the mill and mowing the hay were absolutely essential to the bucolic plots. Oh yes, very. Heh.

Meanwhile an old friend of Himself’s rang on the landline, which was enough to confuse anyone these days, and then I thought they were some sort of scammer as they wouldn’t give their details and were very interrogative. Eventually, somehow, I sorted out that they weren’t actually a Nigerian scammer. They, of course, are now convinced I’m completely insane. They’re probably right.

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