Peripheral
Dedicated Member
Last night just as it was going dusk, I took a last look out of the kitchen window to make sure that everything was secure and that no one had made off with the second-hand sweaty sock sniffer that I had purchased in Afghanistan whilst on honeymoon in 1958. It has to be kept outside because of its size and the awful pong that emanates from it because of its ability to retain the smell of the sweaty socks it finds in the larder. It was still in place by the blue and grey stalk rhubarb patch. Happy that everything was tickety boo I turned to go back and carry on watching the 2,358,764th episode of Coronation Street when I heard a little voice coming from the area of the greenhouse. "Peri," it said, "can I please have a chocolate roll fritter? There is nothing to eat in the greenhouse since you have been getting your grub delivered by Tesco's". It was Cecil the centipede, the one who had wished me a happy birthday earlier. I reached out of the window with my walking stick and he crawled up it into the kitchen and I promptly set about cooking him some fried snakes toenails and custard on toast. I had just finished when there was a knock at the door. It was the men in white coats. Sadly, or you might think gladly, they won't let me finish this email.........Hey fellas, go easy with that straight jacket. 