Bigga
Well-Known Member
January 1st.
I am sat here rocking in my bamboo douche chair as my head’s a tad foggy, this morning, after last night’s gala in my home. Something about Barbara Cartland and ‘swinging chandeliers’ keeps popping in to mind in flashback. It does seem that the gala for the Hirsute and Delicate Yorkshire Ladies and Royal Horticultural Society presents “Lady Gardens and Bushes” went quite well, though.
I awoke at the crack of Dawn and naturally began to stroke my handle bar as habit. The night drool has given it a bit of an impressive sheen, of late. This puberty lark isn't the hell I was once led to believe. The maids have a glint in their eye since I sprouted these handles and I may just give them a feel in their private quarters, later on. Perk the day up!
The late afternoon Brotherhood of Leather and Chains committee meeting was a bit of chore, with Albert complaining that his wheel barrowed swollen testicles needed some attention and the fact dear Barbara Cartland was still missing. Those flashbacks are becoming more bothersome, I must say!
Supper was made more interesting than the beef laced with Secret Swahili sauced marmalade wellington offering as Miss Cartland staggered in, tiara tilted, mink a skewed, sawed off shotgun carrying and muttering some garbled message of Ketamine being ‘the future’! Well, steam my monocle! Huzzah, she’s alive!
Marmaduke, my manservant, has just trotted in to inform me that a Mr Speilberg is on the line asking for permission to make more of my memoirs into a film for his character ‘Indian Johns’ or something! He’s had plenty to work off, in the last few years! Ah yes, I must remember to remind Marmaduke that his trotting form needs more work as his knees are not high enough!
Roll on tomorrow, then...
*Feel free to add an entry*
I am sat here rocking in my bamboo douche chair as my head’s a tad foggy, this morning, after last night’s gala in my home. Something about Barbara Cartland and ‘swinging chandeliers’ keeps popping in to mind in flashback. It does seem that the gala for the Hirsute and Delicate Yorkshire Ladies and Royal Horticultural Society presents “Lady Gardens and Bushes” went quite well, though.
I awoke at the crack of Dawn and naturally began to stroke my handle bar as habit. The night drool has given it a bit of an impressive sheen, of late. This puberty lark isn't the hell I was once led to believe. The maids have a glint in their eye since I sprouted these handles and I may just give them a feel in their private quarters, later on. Perk the day up!
The late afternoon Brotherhood of Leather and Chains committee meeting was a bit of chore, with Albert complaining that his wheel barrowed swollen testicles needed some attention and the fact dear Barbara Cartland was still missing. Those flashbacks are becoming more bothersome, I must say!
Supper was made more interesting than the beef laced with Secret Swahili sauced marmalade wellington offering as Miss Cartland staggered in, tiara tilted, mink a skewed, sawed off shotgun carrying and muttering some garbled message of Ketamine being ‘the future’! Well, steam my monocle! Huzzah, she’s alive!
Marmaduke, my manservant, has just trotted in to inform me that a Mr Speilberg is on the line asking for permission to make more of my memoirs into a film for his character ‘Indian Johns’ or something! He’s had plenty to work off, in the last few years! Ah yes, I must remember to remind Marmaduke that his trotting form needs more work as his knees are not high enough!
Roll on tomorrow, then...
*Feel free to add an entry*