Now it is often said, especially by those more garrulous than perspicacious, that a single man in possession of a well-packed lunch box must be in need of a woman with a certain amount of slackness in her knicker elastic.
Far be it from me, however, to offer any confirmation and/or denial of such a… well, dubious, piece of folk wisdom. I have been around the world, and once even spent an afternoon in Tipton, but still I would not like to pontificate on such matters, especially in mixed company and especially when my weasel is about to come to the boil.
Now, I hear you ask*, what has this to do with the matter in hand? Well, if you would kindly take the matter out of your hand and return it to the underwear that is its more natural home, I will explain.
As the keener-eyed amongst you may have noticed, this… this… whatever it is… has, very briefly, of late been looked after by our very own Grand Uncle Stagnant, however he has decided that – after only a day – he is not up to it, especially after a vigorous morning in the hay loft with the dairy maids (all 17 of them), as well as taking up his new employment.
So I have - after some persuasion, including some rather deft handling of the rolling pin by my own dear Maureen -
been forced of my own free will decided to take up the reins of this… this… whatever it is… once more.
Of course, it goes without saying that I will do my utmost to make sure it continues to be updated with the frequency that a person of your taste and discernment has come to expect.
While I can see that your expectation of some form of explanation for both my and Maureen’s absence from this splendidly upstanding organ should necessitate some explanation, may I just quite whisper about certain matters of national security and point you in this direction as by way of illumination.
*Yes, I do have especially keen hearing**.
**I heard that too.