Basically anyone’s wife could identify with the “in love with a hairy monster” part…
Wasn’t this particular bit published already?
“At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun
In the wild purple of the glow’ring sun,
Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud
The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one,
Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire.
The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed
With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear,
Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire.
Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear,
They leave their trenches, going over the top,
While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists,
And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists,
Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop!”
Maybe Your Majesty should not eat the apple? Anyways, Your Maj seem to have passed the point of no return, weightwise…
Is it some self-digesting meal, if it comes in a stomach already? Ideal for weight-loss programmes…
All of the above, please, I can finally afford a good party!
You know, next time you should organize the ceremony for late afternoon, followed by tea and cake. Oh, and don’t forget to invite a bird that eats mosquitoes.
all the memory wipes make Brewster resistant against anything getting stuck in his head - there is ample room to manoeuvre…
He’s right, he can do it. He can call the son Snoopy and still get away with it. Hey, can I live in this alternate universe, too?
On Mondays we had no television AT ALL! what deprivations we had to suffer…
Is it Pete on the left? He got off lightly…