It’s Saturday and I have just returned from a rather unpleasant social drink with Tony McNamara. I can only liken it to having your socks darned with wire wool whilst you are still wearing the socks and the socks are being stitched by that evil seamstress Mrs Nesbitt (who is increasingly getting on my nerves).
As you have probably gathered by my bubbling resentment Mrs N was sat in the background throughout our drink, sipping her sweet sherry and eaves dropping on every word I said to Tony. When Tony excused himself to pick up a packet of pork scratchings, she let it be known she is privy to all my activities and movements.
I have decided from this day forth I shall divulge nothing more to Tony until he shakes that bitter limpet from his arm.
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