Thank you so so so much Mr Smith for not making me go to the Golf club dinner and dance last night with all your horrid old cronies and their ghastly wives; even if this is because the tickets were £60 which you were too mean to pay.
Mr Smith has found a game larder shop in Kent and comes back with a haul that might make you think he was a full time poacher. Last night we had wood pigeon which was OK but a bit pongy. The night before it was rabbit stew and that was a bit on the high side too. There is venison, partridge and something unidentified to go. I just want baked beans on toast. I am becoming increasingly unexcited by stinky bits of dead animals. It's Romney Marsh lamb tonight; the stuff that has grazed in front of the nuclear power station and glows in the dark. I will shove it around my plate.
I must away to my wings. One is together ... shortly to be demoulded. The other next. Then major repairs then attachment. Oh God, please please make it go alright. I am at the end of my tether here.
Later: They went like a dream. One is a bit fatter than the other but they are both wing shaped and the Apprentice admired them greatly. Even Mr Smith raised an approving eyebrow. I think he was dreading the floods of tears and "what am I going to do" wailing that was anticipated. Now the next part of the saga ... attaching them. I fear it might rain tomorrow so it will be ... attaching them in the rain. Mr Smith can hold the umbrella.
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