Bloomin hec, I wake up ere on a drizzley Sunday morn, look back upon what I've written the night bfore, and, what a ruddy load of crap I can go orn about sometimes. Tis amazing what just a fw pints of cider can do to your head. But tis bonus this morning, cos since awakening, there be no sign as yet of hangover. For this I am thankful. But ruddy hell, what tripe I write.
Is it possible on this day of rest to think about breasts?
No, not now. Last night was Saturday night, breasts are for Saturday nights, but definitely not Sunday mornings, would seem disrespectful an all that.
Hell, why not.
Anyyywayyyyy before I write and get myself in trouble more so than needs be with the visual imagery of all these beautiful posters breasts, not including Mikes, I think I'm going to ave me lunch, and watch some politics on the telly before going out for a walk in the countryside.
I miss breasts, can you tell?
Celty