Friday, September 28, 2007

Dulux's day out.

My chum Dulux is having one of her cathartic phases. We have a small book running as to how long this one will continue. It has got noticeably worse since the Scot slunk of to Greece in a futile attempt to capture the glories of my previous commands in the Aegean and the Ionian.
This particular phase involves a great deal of self denial washed down with activité. Last time I saw her - afloat - normally a haven for epicurean excess - she was living entirely on sprouting beans, carrot shavings and wheatgrass juice - with the attendant vapourishness that such hideous repast would incur. Consequently when the situation demanded something approaching a slot of exertion she fainted dead away.

I had put this out of my mind of late as I have had some of my own particular worries to concern myself with - on a professional and personal front - and my runtime has been pretty consumed. Hamster wheel has demanded a lot of amperes (Factory wide outages no less) I have had the CAA breathing down my neck demanding I learn their scripts as well. (I did rather well in in my exam by the way dear reader)

Until I received a text last weekend whilst I was rummaging in the farm shop.

It read about something about Lucinda and horse tack with mentions of Jodhpurs and riding and the like…..It was from dulux. Hello, thought I, she has finally discovered her inner pervert. I queried back - never one to let such a comment go unpassed.

The reality was she was actually riding in Gloucestershire - and immediately asked if she could come aviating.

Seems phase two of the project hair shirt is getting out of London and doing shit. Riding one day, flying the next.

'Nice to be of service', said I.
'Donna da Lodger is off sweating out what's left of her youth in Ibiza - you can use her room - Just don’t call me captain at the flying club. I will get more of a reputation than I already have.'

'What reputation is that skipper?'

'Never you mind old girl. What would you like for dinner?'

'No meat, dairy, yeast, alcohol.'

'No vegetables that cast a shadow? Bale of hay perhaps? '

She let that pass.

'Anyway Captain I'm absolutely shattered so please don’t be too alarmed if I just sit on your sofa, fall asleep and dribble all over it.'

'Be my guest', said I - 'you will be in fine - if a little desiccated company'

'How so?'

I indicated that there is a section of the sofa in which there is a special cover to accommodate the fact that is where Donna-da-Lodga's dog chooses to rest his head. He also is wont to dribble.
'Surely it can’t be that bad' she said and we rang off.
Little does she know. She will soon be languishing in oodles of dried doggy dribble.
How fitting.

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