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My love affair with Campbell’s cuppa soup is completely over.  Last night after my bath I resorted to cuppa soups in the absence of cigarettes.  Half way through the second, I found at the bottom of my mug what can only be described as a dehydrated chicken arse.  It actually touched myactual mouth. This triggered a volley of dry heaves that nearly resulted in another Poppy-gate. (Poppy is the cat and I’m not proud of this but… about six months ago, after a night out (drinking something that tasted like Bertie Bassett threw up in a shot glass) I accidently vomited on her.  I tried to get the bathroom in time but my shoes were the same colour as the carpet and the resulting ‘invisible feet’ caused me to lose balance, fall up the stairs, land awkwardly and throw up on the sleeping tabby.  I told you, I’m not proud, but it happened and you have a right to know.)
Husband was awoken from his slumber by my cries of distress and was clearly concerned.

What’s wrong now?’ he said.

‘There’s an arse in my soup and it touched my mouth.’

‘You are taking the bloody piss.’

He’s not good when he’s sleepy.
After showing Husband the arse and crying a bit, he was able to see that it was all his fault and that none of this would have happened if he’d just given me my fags.  He must have felt pretty shitty about it because he made me some tea and gave me a foot-rub.
We didn’t stay up too long as Husband was freezing due to only having swimming shorts to use as pyjamas so we returned to bed where I dreamed that I was given the Spanish Armada as a birthday present.  During one of my hourly burglar checks I got my tit stuck in the venetian blind which led to more distresed noises and crying- by morning it’s fair to say we were knackered.
Husband was off work all day due to his new fangled shift patterns and if you ask me it’s a fucking blessing.  His clothes still haven’t arrived and he’s today wearing a sleeveless vest with some shell-suit bottoms. I can once again see his knob.
Husband believes that this is because it’s got bigger. I tell him that’s he’s probably right as it couldn’t have got any fucking smaller.
I’m not good when I’m sleepy either.
Husband and I reach an uneasy truce around Midday when he tells me that he’s sorry about the fags.  I tell him that I too am sorry for not preventing his clothes from getting robbed.  We have a cuddle and a cup of tea and throw the soup sachets in the bin together.  I feel calmer knowing they’re not in the house anymore.
Late afternoon and we’re starving.  We’re only going to Tesco when absolutely necessary at the moment and Husband offers to pop to the Co-op.  Our local Co-op is a marvellous place, alright the prices are extortionate and they prey on the loyalties of pensioners, but the staff are generally wonderful.  I have never known a shop that will go so far to help a customer in need.
Husband has been gone about 10 minutes before I ring the Co-op.

‘Hello Co-op, this is Linda speaking, how may I help?’

‘Hello Linda, I hope you can, strange request but I’m in a bit of a tizzy. My son has just popped down to your shop for some essentials and I’ve had a bit of an accident.’

‘Are you okay?’ asks Linda, she sounds nice.

‘I’m fine, it’s just my age. I’ve tried to ring his mobile telephone but he’s left it here and I desperately need to get a message to him, I was hoping you ‘d be able to find him and pass it on?’

‘If you think it would help my love, of course. What’s his name and what’s the message?’

‘His name’s ###### ######, he’s wearing one of those shelly suits that’s all the rage.  Just tell him that his Mam has had one of her accidents- he’s going to need to pick up some tenna-lady super absorbent, bleach, a new mop head and a twix. If you could do that, my love, I’d be ever so grateful.’

‘Right… no problem, don’t you worry- I’ll call him over the tannoy and then give him the message myself.  Rest up ‘til he gets home now.’

Husband bought me 40 fags.  He’s a fast learner.