The Soap Factory, Periodical. Part Two.

Once, long time, ago, crawling through a window, I recalled a pleasant
recollection I’d once had some good few months previously. I’d been sitting
near a small hand-painted bucket at the time.
Of course, my solicitor was there, chaking curled fingers into my furred
depths, mutering as she did about colour, as if that was the crux of the
issue. For Jupiter!.and it was whilst recalling this and other true facts of
my very own life, that, and I remind you that this is whilst I was
recollecting, that I remembered a recent chance meeting with my dear old Mr.
Armitage Shanks.
“Er, note-eh ben-eh, lad.ready? The following if you please: Shanks comma
Armitage comma.pause.question mark new question (capital dee lad) do females
comma human comma know of said Shanks question mark. End.”
Well, tenderly I urged my own tongue into an almost inaccessible cavity of
my young lads self esteem as I cast my eyes over the note.

“Tut”

I said.

“Tut tut.”

Much later my legal paraphernaliant raised her skirts and gently tugged down
those sweet sails of England. Oh a hideous aroma did arise, like yeast with
dough only backwards and worse! I’d rather chuckle on my own moundings, or
steal eggs from the ravens! But before all of that.

“Tut!”

Then, through at last, I fell to the inside floor with the thump of parsnips
without the grace of the carrot. I was in! Old Armitage had been right.

To Be Continued.

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