Ones chef chum turns up. Lower half-clad in a bejewelled kaftan, top half looking like a badly camouflaged mercenary at jewel fest. ” Look at these! “
‘These‘ were her shanghaied, lovely, big, fat, rose hips and drapes of elder berries all clutched to ample bosom, she’s further clasping an armful gladioli in the style of Dame Edna, a bottle of ‘Pooh’ and a plethora of pears.
The low evening sun dapples through the spectacularly colourful shrubbery of her ample, autumnal décolletage. She heads toward the fridge who rattled and shuddered his ice department. (“Oh no, not her again!”)
Admittedly they were luscious rose hips, but her insistence badly timed.”Ohh….Go on” she lilts so lyrically “Take pictures of these”. Oh you must do something with these, where do you want them?” as she portaled her accordion of psychedelic wares around and around the empty kitchen and…
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