( What the paramour dreams of)
YAWN!
Happy ginger day to you all. This week’s photo is brought to you courtesy of Gimmie. You may wish to thank him when you see him.
Once again is it brass monkeys out there, if you could see me you would wonder why I am wearing a yak- and I wouldn’t blame you at all, but yaks are surprisingly warm, so fashion be damned. Anyway, I am too sleepy to be anything other than toasty- oh why am I so sleepy nobody asked. Fear not, I will tell you. I am sleepy because I long ago I hitched my wagon to a man who when not snoring like long-lost bull moose, is kicking footballs in his sleep.
All of last week, and some of this, the paramour has woken me around 4am with sounds so loud I am surprised glass didn’t break down the street. Being the kind sort of softie he is, he bought nasal strips to reduce the warbling snargle so that we, and I do mean WE might both sleep soundly. Naturally this reduction in sound is very welcome, the nocturnal theatrics less so.
‘I think we ought to get twin beds, like Ernie and Bert,’ I informed him over my eggs this morning.
He laughed.
He has the AGM with the manliest of his chums tonight. I have already warned him that I have CF early tomorrow and if he wakes me my retribution will be swift and possibly painful.
He can’t say I didn’t warn him.
