Cold

How do you feel about cold weather?

Dear friends

Mildred here. I apologise for my absence and the failure to bring my own special brand of crazy to your in box, or blog box.

I of course left the care of my blog with my dear friend Deb, but she’s the least rebellious person I know. Whereas I have no shame, no scruples, and no interest in obvious questions.

When it’s cold I’m cold, when it’s hot I’m hot, and like any respectable English person I complain anyway. If it’s middling I’m bored.

Whereabouts

I went on a holiday with my latest beau, whose name I’ve forgotten which isn’t a problem as I left our hotel one night and forgot him too.

I then travelled through Europe for a time, the people were annoyed with their governments and complaining about the weather. It was only the architecture that told me where I was.

I got fed up with that so I decided to do a Julie Andrews and go to the Swiss Alps and, in my case, screech into the wind. The hills were alive with the sound of Mildred and all the birds left.

The sheep were still there and imagine my surprise when I fell over a rocky outcrop and landed on my dear friend, roving political reporter Clarence Postlethwaite.

“What are you doing here?” We both asked rather unoriginally. In my case I was lost having dropped my phone over a cliff. In his he needed something more interesting than British politics so he was counting sheep.

He wasn’t better off though as the beggars kept moving and he’d counted 175 sheep in a field of 50. Clarence is a stickler for accuracy which is why he isn’t currently working in the media.

Never tell the truth

He was fired for referring to our PM as more mundane than a bowl of porridge and twice as grey. No one had a problem with that, but the Scots kicked up merry hell defending their porridge.

They mounted a protest outside Downing Street with placards calling for Clarence to be beheaded, drowned in a bowl of English porridge, dismembered, and fed through the letterbox of number 10.

That brought out a counter protest where fans of Larry the Cat were calling it animal cruelty, to which the Scots replied by raising their kilts and proving they were authentically going commando, but less impressive than Tiddlewinks Pussykins in all his glory.

As you may imagine, crazy cat ladies tend to mainly be old enough to be fed up with men and prefer living with cats. Which makes sense. Cats do at least turn away when they tidy their nether regions.

However, apparently these ladies still had a spark of male-oriented-revenge that needed an outlet, and being of an age when no-one intimidates you and lives, they tore the railings from outside number ten and gave chase, sharp points first.

Clarence managed to make good his escape in the chaos and left the country. The fact that he’s an absolute hero won’t even tempt him back.

Plus he’s hiding from his daughter as his legendary grandson took up the battle cry, mooched off to the Houses of Parliament and tossed a pan of porridge over Nigel Farage. Sadly he tossed the pan too.

Mr Farage is now slightly lopsided and much quieter until his teeth are repaired, a friend is paying for that of course.

His grandson has been nominated for the George Medal for bravery, and Clarence’s daughter is going to kill him because said grandson now has enough money from his new fan base to retire before he ever does a day’s work. Which means he will never move out!

So

My lovelies. I am back unless I go on holiday again.

I do of course mean have to leave the country if I should say anything vaguely truthful in this blog.

I will do my utmost to make repetitive questions interesting, especially ones that bring out the pedant in me.

My best love dearies

I am neither hot nor cold today in case you wondered. Nor can I find my underwear.

Yours Mildred

Amorah – Deb sends her love xx

P.S. A friend of our Nigel’s selflessly paid him £5 million for security, because he had a can of paint thrown over him.

P.P.S. Have you seen any of those Scotsmen heading your way? Asking for a friend.