The Demise of the Ministry

This could be our new house. The car, no, the trailer, no, but the house yes, possibly.

We’ve reserved the wooden clad beast in the village of Clifton Upon Teme, 4 bedrooms, and enough room for all of us and plenty of space to swing cats, if we had any, we’ll steal the neighbours and set ourselves off on a good footing. We need to sell our place, and we’ve got 6 weeks from next Saturday, so start the clock in t-minus 7 days, this time next week and we’ll see what gives.

Last time we tried to see our house it was a disaster, this time, the estate agent who is dealing with us told us there were loads of buyers, it is in their DNA to lie to us. I’ve cut estate agents in half before to see what was inside; my Dad was one and he gave me a trainee to dissect, when I cut him across the waist like a magic trick where there was literally no going back, the innards spelt, from left to right, “Just tell them Whatever” This is why we have to remain cautious, and not get too excited, save to say the view is amazing and its the type of estate Swingers move into. My friend lives in the village and has already had a piss in my new garden, but to be fair I had one in his before he moved in, my territory is marked, and be sure we’ll get the garden fumigated before we move in.

So two things.

I will be really sad to leave Shrawley, and my wonderful walking friends, I love you all, but not that way.

And if I am to continue to write this shambles then I’ll need a new name. Clifton Upon Teme is the village, get your thinking caps on and if you can think of a word beginning with N to slip in there and it scans then I salute you.

God (whatever) Bless

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