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Showing posts with label bread poultice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bread poultice. Show all posts

Sunday 15 November 2009

lurgified

Geoffrey and I have flu, so we are currently swathed in tartan rugs, smoking our pipes and sipping boiling hot madeira toddies out of pint sized pewter mugs beside a roaring fire. Readers will know that that is how we spend ninetey per cent of our time, anyway. Nevertheless, we'd like some sympathy - for example, where is Wilson when he is ...well, I can't bring myself to say NEEDED, but as we are feeling generally ghastly and have genuine death's door-style illnesses, some medical so-called expertise MIGHT come in handy. But no. Razor Bill has been delivering leaflets, under pain of death, which advise sufferers to use "self help remedies", such as staying indoors and drinking plenty fluids. "Take your chances" it says, smugly. "After all, it's your own faults for not taking the jab when offered."
Offered? Readers will know that Wilson was firing needles into people's backsides willy nilly and without so much as a by your leave - to the extent that it put me in mind of the English archers raining arrows at Agincourt.
I don't regret leaching the vaccine out of my behind with the bread poultice ( see previous posts). No, not a bit. Neither do I regret conspiring to have Wilson bucked off into the Bay, where I believe he is still just managing to evade the clutches of baby Orca (last time I looked).
People will wonder what became of the bread poultice, with which I leached out the vaccine from my behind, and which then lodged itself on Elizabeth T-G's bonce. And they won't be hugely surprised to learn that we ate it, toasted, with butter and marmalade, for our breakfast yesterday morning.
One benefit of having flu - Spockfingers isn't with us any more - he took off with his juke box, declaring that he didn't want to catch "the lurgy". I think he watched X factor at The Old Rectory, on Apsley and Cherry's 62 inch telly, possibly with a pineapple on his head.

Saturday 7 November 2009

Friday lock-in continues

Oh dear. I'm afraid the poultice landed foursquare on the bonce of Mrs T-G. Regular readers will remember (or they might not) that Mrs T-G (Tupfinder general) is rarely seen in public. In fact, never.
When he stopped by for a snifter last week, the T-G had hinted that "Elizabeth" as he calls her, had put on a bit of weight lately, and had been advised by the ghastly Wilson to "lose some of the beef" - or else. Wilson mimed a cutting motion at his throat, as he said "or else". So, I can only assume that the unfortunate woman was in fear for her life and had set out on a desperate "health and fitness" walk, furtively creeping along the cliffs under cover of darkness. That'll teach her to pay attention to Wilson and his ilk.
Anyway, one side effect is that the poultice had retained sufficient heat to leach some of the fat cells out of her body ("Why did it not do the same for me? I asked Geoffrey, plaintively. "It would take more than a bread poultice to make a dent in YOUR waistline, Tuppy!" he replied, jokingly. At least, I THINK he was joking...)
ANYWAY - this latest atrocity from Wilson has strengthened our resolve and we are "making plans" as I write. In fact, I'm writing this in the Puff Inn - the Friday lock-in continues...

Friday 6 November 2009

bread poultice

Bliss! thanks to the hasty application of a boiling hot bread poultice the "vaccine" has been leached out of my behind/bloodstream. Geoffrey valiantly offered to suck the noxious subtsance out, snake venom-style, but unfortunately his beak is hardly suited to such a task.
After it had done its work, I flung the poultice out of the window, and it landed with a loud slapping noise on the bonce of some passerby or other, I'm not sure exactly who...