I’m not offering you one, berk, the WB is here and I need a plumber. Or anyone with the ability to plunge. Plunge, hmmm, coffee. Could do with being in a coffee shop right now: the writer in me has disappeared to one. My body is on this sofa though.
Fragmented thoughts, including what time is lunch (where I suspect the white-bread ham and cheese will finish up with the same ending as WB).
When you’re going through poo, keep going. Words attributed to Winston Churchill, I believe, though I’ve modified the noun, and excrement or faeces are too technical. Poo is fun. It’s time I was off. To tidy, to clean, to poetise, to shortise, to novelise, to realise I’m