Feck...

[jj]

... I know doubts have been expressed about my sanity, or lack thereof,
so I thought I'd try and describe a typical day in my life at St McNurdly's
Happy Home for the Slightly Flurbled but Well-off Gentry.

0400: We are woken by our kindly [and very well-muscled] carers with a
refreshing shower from their ice-cold hoses. Tazers are an optional bonus
for those lucky individuals whose children could afford the 'Gold-Care Plus'
regimen];

0430: Bed-making. Some of us with advanced arthritis had the odd bit of
difficulty with the angle-iron and grinding-equipment, but we all got the hang
in the end. In fact, that nice Mr. Jenks was literally hanged by two of the
female carers when he soldered the wrong end of the 'A'-frame, oh how we
laughed;

0530: Breakfast. St McNurdly's does a nice line in porridge, made from the
finest freshly-ground pine-cones and Tarmacadam. We are normally given
some juicy toenail-clippings from Matron to garnish, but she has had Athlete's
Foot for the last two weeks so we have had to make do with pork scratchings.
Still, mustn't grumble, eh?

0600: Exercise. The best part of the day !! We are all gently ushered out
at gunpoint to the garden, where we spend the next two hours or so hewing
wood and drawing water, etc. Mrs Goebbels, my personal nurse, said my
drawings now almost completely resemble water, but I think she is flattering me, although I am made a little nervous by her constant references to my
Last Will and Testament. The health-regime initiated by out new PT Instructor
Signor Torquemada certainly seems to have had a beneficial effect, as only
three of our number have perished this week. Well done, Mr T !!!

0800: Basket-weaving. I will pass over this part of the day in silence, except
to say that this is the sort of thing they used to give us old folks in the bad
old days, and I have written a STERN letter to the ‘Times’;

1000: Basket-weaving is finally over. O Frabjous !! Calloo ! Callay !! We now
have a ‘free hour’ for ‘association’, which usually involves exchanging stories
of our lives before we entered St McNurdly’s. I must say Mrs Clegg-Davidson’s tales of her time as a prostitute in the Arab Quarter of Bolton are HIGHLY
entertaining, and not a little unbelievable. “Curved like a scimitar”, indeed……
... Mr Sputum’s account of his death in a Harrier GR-1 reconnaisance-jet at
the hands of Baron von Richtofen over Ypres in ’17 I also find a little ‘tall’.
Still, as I wasn’t there at the time , I can’t judge.

1200: Luncheon. At this point I must take my leave, as my kindly carers
have put the restraints on again. I MUST learn not to literally bite the hand
that feeds me, but old habits die hard………

[crofter]

You fail to mention what planet this takes place on JJ, please correct immediately and next time don't be so vague.

[jj]

Vague?
How did you know that was the planet?

[Lizard]

Sounds fucking marvellous, Can you get me and Maggs in, he dribbles I swallow..

[laralatex]

u swallow.... even i dont do that, you don't produce enough!

[jj]

?2k a month.

[jj]

Get a room, you two.