Europe is where it's at. Come, come to us plaything, return to our blackhearted bosom, the lands of cuisine and environmentally fatuous malcontents. And really nice thatched cottages. We do make exceedingly nice cottages.
Not to be mistaken for cottagers, which can give a chap a quite startling surprise in the public vacancies of the Fulham area, I don't mind telling you.
Your rant has made me feel quite immodest. Had that been my gabbling prose, that would have barely made up the longevity of a preface. How restrained you must be. I bet you are able to offer the last delicious buttered scone at parties. Change a nappy and ingratiate yourself to a lover all at once. You probably make Mr Kipling look like a dissapointing producer of Battenburgs.
My apologies, I was being a little Anglo centric. Sicily is stunning, visually and of course home to some incredible wines, coffees and desserts. Probably the one place I would be particularly tempted to try swordfish too. My grandma’s from Trieste way so I’m part Italian herself. In the more volcanic of discussions with grandfather, she always gesticulates to the heavens, and in my scant knowledge of Italian I can just about decipher “I wish I was back on my little Island, you marauding herd of inelegant bastards.” Such a delicate way with words.
Right, lets see if I can pull my finger out for a picture of a cottage:
Herself, myself. Factually I was right as at the time it was under their rule but now its an Island owned by Yugoslavia I believe. I try and get her to teach me little bits of Italian every time I visit her now. It is one of my greatest regrets that in her health, we may run out of time to do such things together.
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spill!
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Not to be mistaken for cottagers, which can give a chap a quite startling surprise in the public vacancies of the Fulham area, I don't mind telling you.
Your rant has made me feel quite immodest. Had that been my gabbling prose, that would have barely made up the longevity of a preface. How restrained you must be. I bet you are able to offer the last delicious buttered scone at parties. Change a nappy and ingratiate yourself to a lover all at once. You probably make Mr Kipling look like a dissapointing producer of Battenburgs.
I am all admiration x
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Right, lets see if I can pull my finger out for a picture of a cottage:
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The perils of procrastination.
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