DP WHITTINGTON

When I was younger I decided to go to London town to try my luck.

My Mummy said

“DP, son, be very careful, don’t go off hastily, the streets are lined with heroin addicts and cadaverous and eviscerated bodies” – that’s what I loved about my Mum – always upbeat and looking on the bright side. I suppose she was podiatrically challenged since that time her heel caught in the pavement which aggravated her bunions no end and this made her a tad wary, yet she was generously supportive when my teacher said I was as thick as two short planks. She wrote a letter to him and I believe that the word ‘excrement’ was used. She bought me a lovely pair of wellington boots as a special gift.

I persisted in insisting that I went and eventually she packed me off with a sandwich and a cheese pie wrapped up in a rather jazzy spotted hanky – sometimes she was wonderfully efficient.

I arrived in London and twirled around and around taking in the effervescent crowds and the beautiful goddesses that seemed to grow out of the woodwork. I tried my best, pitching woo left, right and centre but had little luck with the ladies – I even tried beguiling them with my intensive knowledge of tomato plants but even botany didn’t help. Some were foreign though, saying things like “ abra carambar” so I guess my failure wasn’t that surprising.

By half past two in the afternoon I was beginning to feel homesick and so I decided to wander home ……

……. I was welcomed with open arms and the effervescent words …. “Oh DP, you’re such a dick.”

[Tee hee – the flimflam flinger strikes again!!!! – please refer back to this post earlier in the week ……….. I thank you *bows modestly*]

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