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Chapter 3

I am a disappointment to all the scientific men and women who believed in me to disagree with sheer genius as dear Freud. I will get the soup out and curl into a corner and die alone in some seascape with the lights on the light house. Where the good Virginia Woolf shall write a good novel about the stream of consciousness. My dear God to have disagreed with such a good genius where is my smelling salts? Do you think I should take up painting to agree with the seascape? The wonderful creation of genius when mixed with the duchy is the hall marks of genuine talents and good senses and sensible Vespers. To whisper anything less would be to make harm and not to be taken wind of the sails. We all love to be cruel and we definitely are the best in the world in English literature we love this to such an extent that we are extremities by it.

To thank the lord that she had the books written and published and then went off to do the dinner party at the dinner table and supposing she was lesbian well she wrote the letters and her sibling was married to a gay lad was it all convivial and all matter of fact? The titters which has not stopped since now when we wonder who is dressed up as a woman and who is dressed up as a man? Where the woman is more muscle than the man and the man is this virgin seeming blushing fool. I blame it on the waters but it is her that has done the work women like Wolfe who did nothing but praise such behaviour and called it normal even natural.

Well is it as nature intended when you can fuck your girl friend and boy friend at the same party and go home and wonder where sex is less pleasing than it used to be because at the age of twenty you are spoilt without reason?

I am Jung to disagree is not my business it is sheer stupidity there goes my promotions.”

I shan’t even work at the supermarket ASDA as they want to taste the food there before selling not being able to understand something they can’t smell and taste. The smell is round us still the smell from the last centuries to this when men did not disagree nor disobey now we are the herd we go with the herd the herd says the rich and the powerful must have everything. Look you can murder someone and the good Judgement is she was in the bath room and he had the rights to shoot her. When did such a thing did make sense the nonsense of what the fathers have done to us now.

Who is my parent supposed to be? Anyone have the ready answer as the dear Freud said we are who our parents are. So who do I will turn out to be? I must say the good Natalie Wood was a disaster as a parent. I do not like that I liked her films and like the Witches of East wick I make and unmake my parentage. The dear actors the good citizens all the good people are me as parents because I had no proper upbringing. So because I don’t want the world to be culled I did not have any babies although I love children I could not bring binge children so that they could be eaten by the worst people the people traffickers. Now in the seaside in the worst place waiting to be devoured. They are the cakes on the beach is everyone okay with that?

I must have a parent who said this and made that? The good adopted father was not a parent he adopted me said he was the father but he did not like to think himself as the father. He had nothing to say which made sense to me? I had no particular feelings except to make the family sound good there was too many things he did do which he had in his madness to do. Him being mad and mostly impotent made him difficult to communicate and by the time he had been cured and calmed enough to sit in his chair wasting time and looking on to what he had made we did not only ignore him but we did not look at who he had been or what he said.

“He is nothing to me.” Said his wife of mainly sixty years.

“Nothing to anyone.” He agreed.

“Well what a waste of time that has been.”

That is what they agreed as he prepared to his drinking and binging and eating his sorrows. He has many sorrows now. He wet’s himself. I can’t stand the smelly old man.

“My first boy friend thought him Mr Barrett from the Wimpole street?”

“You a poet him the father from Wimpole street.”

“I say that is a good idea.”

I am now Elizabeth Barrett Browning from the good Wimpole street. There that is sorted. What happiness to think that? Indeed that is a nice idea I will write an ode or something. It will give me writing experience. Her being in an incestuous relationship with good her father whom she had to run away from to get away from his clutches.

I say what a nasty man he was. Poor Elizabeth went mad with the grief she had to run all the way to Italy to not to embarrass her dear husband. The good Browning who detested his father in law for the rest of his life.

In fact poor Elizabeth died in a sort of a daze that she had the same desires for her dear son that she gave birth to. Oh dear boy in his swimming suits and his dear sailor hats. Him growing was such a disaster for her dear husband made him appear older her husband that is compared to her dear son.

Oh to have found such happiness to only Satan to have found his way round her corsets. Her unable to make herself accept the fact of the matter that one could not wear her corsets in Italy as it was hot.

Hot Italy there it is hot is in Italy. She tried to cook the pasta which she could not eat they could not afford a cook. They could not afford to eat anything but pasta. How she hated pasta. Here is the pizza here is the pasta? Where is the custard?

With that desert no custard. She smiled with disgust no custard again? We do not have custard for the pudding? No custard in this place no lala de da too? There have this pudding or off the menu?

The woman would scramble around the room cleaning and making her feel ill at ease. Them that has it she thought the pale worn out hag the food of the Gods in her side.

This thing skimping into a corner and seeming to be putting on airs and graces which seemed to melt the good husband. Oh the dear man; younger than that thin thing sat on her sofa. There she was making his life hell and being impediment in his manly walk in life.

Such a brilliant man to be in love with such a hag ridden woman who did nothing but groan alone in some agony. Where did she get the agonies from the detestable cow? She knew more agonies than anyone and she knew what violence was she came from parts unknown. She lived such a life and this thing unable to think about doing the right thing and dying and leaving them healthy to mate and merry. Her sat in there, writing something? What she wrote made her intense that was because she thought of sex than? Sex this thing don’t make me laugh a horrid woman with nothing to do all day.

She would write again, which appeared not to ease or mend. She went to his room and did for them because he was there and she had to see what to do with her when he buried her. That is the only way a woman whom a body left was to make ends meet.

Her engagement had been ruined; ruined her prospects it had. When her dear relative grabbed the fiancé and he left not even with a note of something but a girl child. A child a girl at that? In her line of work there was nothing for that child. In fact it could be placed in something worse, worse than what she had got? Prison or something worse what was worse than what she had? No she had to marry her off somehow.

Her girl child was nearing an age when the buxom thing would make others fight over her but not having a man would not even let her down but ruin her. She worried. She made worries she worried. It would be mother’s ruin said Elizabeth kindly to her husband who shared misgivings or something.

Nearing her time Elizabeth’s feared to be alone with the woman developed such a forboding as if the woman was to murder herself with spite. She did not mean to jump or fret. The woman made her uneasy. She just developed a phobia about this and would try to stay in her corner not allow the maid to dust her room in case she dusted her away.

The maid was dusting her the wife away. The man of the house had to come and place himself between them. He was not there the husband. His image was moving from her vision she did not see him and he was getting away from her. He was moving away from her she had to have him near her.

When he came back she sat down quite content. When he went to get work and pay she tortured herself that he would never return to her. That he would never come back to her that he in fact would be some place without her important and laughing. She withered and useless; a drain on his life.

He meant everything to her but he had a life when she did not. She had no life left and he had the skin the good fleshy bones and she had nothing at all. A crow she had become a crow. Oh she did not want to tell him what she felt. That he would enjoy his life without her. That he had all those years yearnings which they had and he would have it with someone else. He would enjoy life without her.

That he would live and she died. She tormented herself with images of him and his life ahead of him and without her. She drained herself. She tried to write no words came that she had not thought of before. She just died for thinking of her own shame of her own odd life of such a life. A wife practically not of even a morsel of use.

Sat in the sofa draining him. As if he was giving her transfusion of his life. A burden on him. A burden.

He did not write poetry because he had to do accounts. He could not write because he had to read in order to translate so that her burdensome existence could continue on.

Elizabeth Browning was nothing to say nothing to do but to calm her nerves so that she felt useful so that she could give something to the cleaning woman because she had nothing else to give her kind nature and good sense appealed to no one she was no longer any use at all. She cried how useful she had been now without a use at all not even able to dress or to make herself understood at all.

She could not go out and staying in was torture she fell more uneasy when the shadows did not appear. When they appeared: she made screams. Her sight made her whimper in hells of frights and made her demons appeal to nothing she did. Her strength was leaving her and she did not begrudge this from herself. She had led a life more useful than she imagined and she had not dared to hope for happiness at all.

This is not the thing to have custard with you shameless woman in her under hand way and manners of a screwed up old hag. What is going on? Out with such a great poet as Mr Browning. All them women and he had to choose this? Why?

All the senoritas want to go out with and him and he staying indoors to look after such a specimen as this? “Too thin.”

“ Thin hair complexion only an old widow would have. Not enough out in the sun stayed in this room might as well stayed in England.”

The specimen in question had this earth shattering shallow expression as if an old ghost would come out her breath. The ghosts came flagging a ride or two and she made it through the weather beaten shelter which housed herself and her ghost of the past.

The father who she had not even hated the family now disowned her. She sat dead broke in this sunny clime without a will or hope of escape. She loved this place but hoped for bread and custard even a roast dinner would be nice.

The roast dinners they had had made her cry in the end it is not the big disasters which make life hell but them little disasters which had come and breaks the spirit. Her spirit broken not by poems or anything but her dear husband’s ignorance that she needed a roast dinner and he did not have any idea what she pined for. She did not have the heart to tell him that she could deal with any disaster but what broke the heart her heart was not the distant place nor the shabby woman but not having roast dinner. Which this breaks the camels back.

The roast dinners they had when in their happiness which her siblings had looked forward to. When on their father’s joints they had made and planned for when the father was away. She took the housekeeper aside and told her what to do and get for dinner they dined in capital style they had. The good cheers adding to the glam of their lives.

“How many ways do I love thee?” she wrote and she found ways to love the Browning the poet. They liked to read together and translate their images of this and that their lives without anything but love. But their child was growing. The boy who they had he needed to go to school she did not want him to go without University. This added to her misery that he would become a waiter which was like the hotel keeper. The man who detested her said shamed and useless not a woman a woman who wrote not a woman.

A uneducated man a man would lose his cast his school would protect him and make him earn his money in an honourable manner in a manner not like a waiter but with a semblance of culture of good taste even maybe sense? A native? The boy was like a native he spoke fluent Italian and went all round the place knew them people he had become more Italian and more native than some of the natives. He might marry an Italian wife and have many children and would he manage to educate his children they would be Italians she would lose him.

“Why Mr Browning not take my sister in law she is nice and comely not only a good cook with hair that is good luxuriant and not ill of complexion?”

They would laugh then she shattered the laugh went out of their married life. She lay dying her death was not unexpected. She had lived more than they had thought she would. Fifteen happy years with husband and a son.

She died and smiled and died and he never forgot her never forgave his father in law never spoke nor mentioned his name never remarried. He never went and wrote anything as grand or meaningful, as when their love had flourished.

When his love for her had been innocent before his horror before his shock which shook his very soul to its foundation. When he would never forgive such conduct as he found her situation to be. He never forgave nor forgot the man who destroyed the woman he loved.

The endless walks outside the dark streets as he walked and walked on the pavements of rain swept England. For twenty years he walked in revenge as he waltz in revenge with his mirror of the life he had led and the mean shabby way it had ended. The funeral not grand not grand at all cheap well how else to bury poets?

She who wrote the longest poem in the English language and had made her name in making satire and making things happen. Now dead and gone in some shady place whom no one will remember if it had not been for her? The meaninglessness of it all. The desires not spent but sorrow which did not make sorrow. His sorrow that he had not been able to make her last year tolerable not even tolerable.

He never forgave never forgot and Mr Barrett went bankrupt. The Wimpole street house on the 22 street had to be sold the furniture outside the man coming in and out and Browning at last free. Too old late and outside now no more?

For twenty years walked these streets and now what else to do old man? Cabbie there is and I go and see to the son who has lived and prospered. Now a man dear child a dear child from the wife who gave me this and that.

Imagine Barrett Browning out and about with her lap dog without much cash and waiting for Browning on that fateful night when she told Browning about her home situation with her maid saying where can we go Miss where can we go?

She was 44 years old an older woman and Browning in his twenties or something just out from Cambridge just out and making his name for himself. This distressed woman was a poet much experienced had years of ill health and she had the money but tied up in her father’s keeping because he had the money for marrying her mother. Her mother did not have any right to because when a woman married in them days the money went to her husband.

The will said things to her in order to marry it would have to please the father he had the right to say no. The mother had been a woman who gave nine children to her husband died in her vainglory having done her duty. The mother on her death bed was told he would never allow the children to marry would intervene if they loved and would make their lives hell.

“Now there is this question the father has the rights of first refusal to offers any offers that came the child’s way? Well imagine having a father who detested those children whom his wife gave to him because she had not loved him never cared about anything to do with him in fact had done her duty because she thought he wanted a family loved his children only happy when she gave birth. Then on her death bed he said those words.

“Waiter I am not dying leave it alone take me another time?”

“Now Freud would say leave it the thing to do is there is positive thinking if her will had said come alive then she would have become a mummified mummy and would have taken the devil and come feet back taking him along with her. I have no broomstick can there be a lift from hell?”

“Well you have to wait for ten thousand years then come back as a ghost?”

“Damn it it will be too late by then.”

“Well I can’t help you.”

“Now Freud would have said to these hysterics a sex a day would keep the doctor away as it is all about the beasts in oneself. The unconscious would know what to make of this family they can all go into service and become maids.”

“Now this rich father gives Freud a lot of money to stay alone with his daughter every day of the week for three years until she marries? For two hours a day or one until the money runs out?”

Indeed a marriageable daughter are in need of Freud. His wife very busy with their eight children in a small apartment while he gives his due care and attention to hysterical young girls and him having affairs with his patients.

Known facts. Quite normal because no etiquette in them days all the doctors had sex with their women patients. Fathers sent their daughters in order to prepare them for marriage paid for the good services to because no money no treatment.

“Well indeed it was only rich girls he sought?”

“Of course in order to build his hospital wards for them patients who needed his help.”

“A sort of Robin Hood.”

“Yes without the Hood.”

“It is not right to rob rich girls of their virtue?”

“But it pays well. The father approved totally the girl had a happy marriage afterwards nothing but the best for these girls?”

“Happy marriages?”

“Freud’s marriages were the happiest.”

“Wife swapping became fun too?”

“And distressingly all the intellectuals became bisexual.”

“Mostly due to his influence?”

“Well he said we were all bisexual.”

“Well it was most awkward and Freud seemed to know what he was doing.”

“The artist went a shagging looking for themselves or something.”

“Most distressed they did not find themselves.”

“No in fact they could not disagree with Freud that they were having a complex and super ego and the traumas of childhood but then they went to live in a colony where they could not figure what to do with themselves.”

“You mean where to put everything?”

“Well into the light house or out at the back street or to murder the men or the women.”

“In the sixties it was most popular?”

“What was?”

“Body bags in the river most wives murdered their husbands for being square they all went pop with the bags out and everything they murdered for Paul or Stevie Wonder they went all hopping to see them. They became the New Seekers.”

“Left their families and went a group shagging they had no other things to do?”

“Home was too much like not fun.”

“Yes they had nothing to do but drink and orgy and dance the blues and then when forty to go hunting for a wife or husband whom left behind the home coming was most difficult they did not agree with the woman or the man on the door. “

“Pinter wrote that did he not?”

“Why yes he should have got the Nobel Prize before he died he did not get it.”

“Well why he wrote such a dreaded future play?”

“He was young and innocent.”

“Besides the BBC paid for it.”

“Why he never got the prize is when he married and sat on himself he looked after himself and the world kept the peace and order round the world. Made others work and mended nothing at all. In fact Pinter was the worse clown in the business but that is only my opinion his life style of crude behaviour his life as a witless leader of shags and has been up and coming writers with nothing to on their brains but meaningless endless useless make do work.

Making work for fags and society which has no other meaning but being meaningless. No him sitting up in his top lofty tower with his wife and their mistresses and they thinking God has sent them down to earth to be snobs and to snubbing all the writers they made writers look so bad that to eat with them was to eat shit.”

“I guess you did not like Pinter?”

“I liked his plays. The early plays when he wrote.”

“But then why he did not write other then play is beyond anybody’ s guess a man who made it to eighty and he wrote two damn good plays.”

“He wrote a lot for screen?”

“Yes indeed he did.”

“They made a lot of money.”

“Indeed he had a flair.”

“Why he never rewrote some of his best plays?”

“I do not mean to run but I have to think out a way of getting back to the station. I always lose my way round here it is so twisted adding to train travel in fact takes me hours to find this place and several lost time to get back to the station when the smell is over.”

“You know about the BBC?”

“No what?”

“They never pay me to write in fact they pay me to stop writing. This makes my life such a job seekers allowance.”

“Well maybe the weather report will get extended?”

“It is already every ten minutes then we have the sports then we have the weather report.”

“Maybe the writers have gone away?”

“Where where have the writers gone?”

“If you are not Agatha Christie then forget it.”

“Well what is wrong with it then?”

“It is not Agatha Christie.”

“I daresay Sherlock Holmes is making a big comeback.”

“The jokes are all gay.”

“Well it is about two gay detectives?”

“Well I dislike them holding hands makes it seem like tarts night in.”

Meanwhile in the 18th century the happiest people were ones who were not happy. The good food the good living room space the spacious house mansion the building all cared for the cold outside the rooms heated the flowers in the conservatory the humans in their little frocks all good looking all looking as if haunted.

“You can’t marry that man because I dislike you coming back happy.”

“I go into my room father and never come out again. I hate the very sight of you.”

“Well he can take you without money? Where is the love he has for you?”

“Oh oh.”

“I am a poet father leave her alone?”

“Oh to cook is your speciality is not that true you look after the kitchens my poor Elizabeth just look after the kitchen you know what it is like to look after the welfare of your own siblings?”

“Oh yes father.”

“You take after your mother Elizabeth she too had sense but look where it took her? Into her early grave the thing Elizabeth it is not wise to be a poet what good is poetry in the end?”

“I am a firm believer of everyone doing what they can to further the good of human kindness. This is kindness to them readers not to read the trash you write my dear Elizabeth. It is wasting eyes and making them minds dull to hear middle aged woman talking about that which makes no matter or sense. Why Elizabeth have I struck a nerve? But my dear with your ill health there won’t be much more work to read will there? Not with your delicate constitution will there? Not having second thoughts about young men on the stairs my dear fool?”

“I am sure that dinner will be served soon father I will just go into the kitchen and see.”

“Elizabeth why have you fallen ill what is the matter are you dying you coughed blood.”

“While she is attended by the doctor which I am paying the others can eat their dinner.”

“Leave alone when I gave up things for this family do you know I could have become great?”

“The ingratitude of such a family to be taking my time as well. With all the work I have to do to make the business work and the business trips. I have to make in order to see to this and that your selfish mother left without a graceful farewell her dying released her but I have all of you to humour me”!

“I say father is not that wicked?”

“You go to your room son I have something important to say to you?”

“I am not marrying that woman she has nothing but her money to grace her with.”

“Good I like that.”

“I say dad I went to the sports hall today there was this magnificent horse do you think we can have her?”

“Indeed you can hire the stable boy and I will make sure you have her.”

“You know we don’t have a stable dad.”

“Dad there is this dress I like?”

“Do you?”

“Come and sit on my lap.”

“Will you buy me the dress if I do?”

“I will think about it.”

“There I sat on your lap daddy?”

“You won’t need a dress then a whore does not need such a thing does she?”

In the previous centuries all we needed to worry ourselves over was whether our families would kill us. Now we worry in case a celebrity is going to kill us. In order to make this plain all you need to do is go over to Pistorious trail and in order to view whether it is legal or even acceptable to worry if a celebrity is out there and can pay off the family. Because if you are a bread owner of the family the celebrity can cash you out. Then marry into the victims family thereby saving himself a great deal of money.

This is in a fact serious matter whether a good celebrity who has done a great deal running can now run for your life. In fact whether the meat was cooked or raw makes no difference there is a celebrity out there and it is going for the kill.

“Meat Pistorious has had a very life in fact he needs to kill in order to make matters better for himself his mental state is in shambles and we need to give him the meat he likes. In fact if the meat is a whore then that is better than he can meat in feast.

The family can now feast in the meat of the situation because their daughter is no longer alive and so meat the family in question as he agrees to pay for a certain time in order to enjoy the publicity of doing right. In fact the meat has gone and now when he no longer earns his pay. If there is a agreeable sibling going then he can meat in the meat because then he can buy what he has paid for with the pide and skewers as well. Kebab in feast to enjoy the taste of the good life.”

“He will play better if he eats well?”

“Oh yes he can paint a better picture of the fucked up life of a disabled man who does not like to lose. He has lost his life for doing the sporting activities?”

“Yes poor bloke his parents amputated his legs in order to make him well.”

“He could barely walk.”

“Now he has waltzed into the lives of us all.”

“Yes made us sports.”

“Yes sporting life has us in it.”

“In fact we are in all the papers.”

“In the front pages look we look so good.”

“Yes we can massively increase our takings.”

“Yes in fact we have made a lot of promotions.”

“Yes nobody comes back for more?”

“Well it is the holiday season.”

“When everyone is back from Spain.”

“Yes we can watch the x factors in their drugged induced comates state.”

“Pistorous is a better show.”

“No the X factor has this man and he is a psychotic it makes me laugh just by watching him.”

“He looks more psychotic then all the athletic?”

“Yes he does he is staring on the ground and looking so unwell it makes me wince with laughter.”

“My God he looks the sight does that once more?”

“I will send it to Ethel from Florence.”

“What would your Nan say?”

“She does not mind she was in on the first shower scene in psycho. She experimented on her sister before she let the actress do the scenes.”

“Did she whatever give her that idea?”

“Well Hitch wanted something better than all the other showers and in fact he had a crash on some leading lady. He did not have the time because his Mrs would find out so he let me Nan do the work. She is in the family way not speaking at all. Hitch went to get laid and her being very diffident about herself thought of all the things she would do to her sister?”

“Well isn’t it amazing what families make one do?”

“Yes they make one work all their grievances out in the work place it is amazing that scene in the shower. She did not get the credit but Hitch was always grateful.”

“She did not get the credit whatever next”?

“She got to murder her sister.”

“A fair exchange.”

“It made her sleep better.”

“Poor thing did she get the funeral costs?”

“I don’t remember she is buried some place in the cemetery.”

“Well it would be in the cemetery you can’t bury a dead person anywhere else.”

“Yes. It is not on to murder someone is it?”

“But she did it for a film.”

“Yes I suppose the beastly film made a million or so.”

“Yes it made my day just watching the shower scene.”

“Well whatever next you give me the creepers and the jeepers with that moral tone of voice.”

“Well it is immoral to murder someone because you hate them?”

“Well whatever next?”

“It fucks the film up for me.”

“But it is amazing what it made Hitchcock do.”

“But it took away a life and gave something bad.”

“Like what?”

“It smells bad.”

“It is not only rosy it smells of Roses.”

“Get me rose water.”

“But they planned it that way?”

“It is bad.”

“It is not bad it is art.”

“The nerve of it to murder some woman in order to get something for nothing.”

“But it was filmed it did not happen.”

“But a woman was murdered?”

“So no one missed her.”

“Why should the world be looking for her then?”

“The lady with the lamp looking for her is it?”

“Not Florence Nightingale?”

“I thought she was a DJ on Radio 1 in the late seventies last century when DJ’s being fun meant they went out to parties and talked like men?”

“Was not she be a nurse in the Crimea war. She made nurses a professionals.”

“Yes meet the professionals?”

“No not them please.”

“Meet the professionals with them hair styles always looking out for villains.”

“Look they are too old and Hudson played the bloody Butler in upstairs and Downstairs. Don’t make me sick. Meet the Butler no meet Mr Professional he will do the laundry and make them fire them make the tea afterwards and bring your laundry from the shower room? Anything else Mr Hudson?”

“No Hudson played it. He was dismayed at how standards had been lowered. Mrs Bridges down in the kitchen screaming and shouting that there were too many guests to cooked for. In fact she thought meat meant whatever next no she would not think of cooking the footman.

Meet Mr Hudson who kept orderly house. Him having no vices at all. Him being in employ and him not thinking anything but what he should. Him thinking what he was meant to think. Rosie had a mind whom he disapproved of in that time and place a woman did not aspire to better things her being in a mind of her own meant she should still not think of things. It made her very difficult to think of being a head maid when she had not been bred to it. Her even thinking of looking at the lady ship and his master in such a disapproving way even voicing opinions at all made her into a wayward girl. Rosie did not did not dare say such a thing in such a manner when the Master of the house was round and her even reading a book why unheard of thing to have done.

Rosie who wrote the script and did the parlour Maid. And the son and heir married the secretary and went bankrupt after the First Lady died. The mistress of the house died and died without leaving the master her money which the writer of the show had made a mistake over. The ladies in them days did not have the means or the wit to make such wills. The poor sods money were entailed to the master of the house when they married. But the good writer having no such understanding of the situation went ahead with the soap opera having not researched enough.

Without leaving him the husband the money but left everything to the erring son. Now the matter being resolved on we get the point the master of the house was in the right to make no such demands on the scriptwriters association and left him sat down exhausted by the show.

Anything else to add on that but no the erring son had the means the wit and nothing else to get the better of the show and spent all his money in the only way that show deserved. The son who spent a lot of his time chasing round the globe looking for Mrs Right. In fact he did not like them ladies he liked them a male?”

“He had issues?”

“Yes that is why he spent all his time looking for Mrs Right when he fancied the footman.”

“Well did the footman fancy him?”

“They had a fight the footman was beaten to a tether of his soul. Made him sick as a parrot had to lie down for some time. But he liked it. Being a battered man made him feel something he just hated the man.”

“There are a hundred murders every year due to the fact of mentally deranged persons.”

“How many did the government kill in Iraq Afghanistan and other places?”

“Yes but he shagged okay?”

“Yes in fact gave him quite a crush.”

“Yes if only he had been in the right station in life but him being the footman made him a disaster.”

“No understanding what goes in the world.”

“No the affair had to be settled decently.”

“Of course, the, it had.”

“Yes the footman had to go.”

“With no references at all?”

“No why should such a pervert get a good job.”

“He became a crook just as he should be.”

“That is how we handle the criminal classes.”

“Well done down the black bin?”

“Yes why should we listen to anymore of this?”

“There are too many crooks in the world with no money.”

“Yes making us look like we had too much of nonsense about us.”


“We are not talking nonsense in fact when I last heard myself I spoke such a lot of sense it made me weep.”

“Who was talking?”

“It was the radio but it echoed everything I said it had all my thinking in a nutshell it could have been me?”

“It might have been you.”

“Yes it could not have been anyone else?”

“Oh no it had to be you in BBC talking such a lot like yourself.”

“That is good sense.”

“Oh yes it was.”

“What are you saying?”

“We are not amused the queen listens to that show too?”

“It is not the Archers is it?”

“Never mind.”

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