Friday, March 08, 2013
An Incident Untoward
Mrs Resperson-Shawcross, vending towards the specialist
who has retired, though not to a few patients of quality,
decides to check out the vacation cottage.
All proves neat, Jeanette competent. But sounds
of unmistakable passion infiltrate.
She flings open the bedroom door to the couple
in final throe. "Oh My God!" they shriek.
"What do you...? Who are you?" she gasps.
"Please, Ma'am. I'm Baker, Jeanette's boy,
and this is..."
"Baker, huh? Well not to make any little loaves
in my best sheets!"
"Why does your sort always put the dirtiest aspect on
everything?" issues forth from saucy scarlet-face.
“In your position, young lady, it is difficult to launch
any argument.”
“We're engaged!” she rejoins.
“Indeed?” They have popped up, she wrapped in
the sheet. He bold as anything ever hairily projected.
“Please, don't watch me dress,” she finally whispers.
Mrs Resperson-Shawcross complies as an example
of Class.
The lovers having departed at sartorial sixes and sevens,
she flames Jeanette from her cellphone.
Back late after stopping for dinner, and Mr R-S snores.
(He had arrived with the hyphen. Since she hails from the
best family in Sussex, thought given to adding her name.
Rejected as too too.)
She endures fits of restless righteousness before a profound
sleep visited by dreams of urgently filthy sex.
Labels: class, English, passion, sex, wealth
