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Dear Diary - I'm away for just 2 days and things around here
seemed to have gone a bit pear-shaped in my absence.
It had been such a spiffing weekend too - gadding about town
with my old pal Carruthers.
Returned very late and, after a snifter retired to bed, only
to be awoken at 11 p.m. by what sounded like some blasted
street drunkard raining a veritable dictionary of
unspeakable cursing on the world. Honestly, I'd never heard
such language, even in the scrum at Rugby. The strange thing
was that it sounded like it was coming from the basement.
Too tired to investigate.
Found a mysterious mess of feathers, blood and cigar butts
in the garden shed this morning, which I don't recall
leaving there myself. Larkin the house midget claimed to
have witnessed nothing untoward while I was away.
To top it all off the Philpott woman next door, normally
such a proper lady gave me the cold shoulder when I bade her
good day and told her I hadn't forgotten that I promised her
some more of my prize manure. Really! Some people should
remember not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Or even in the rear! Haw! Haw!
I am a bachelor though, and one would hope one's offerings
of manure were not inappropriate to a married lady.
I'm considering growing a beard. Carruthers seems to think
he has an "in" at the Beard
Growers Guild.
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