Going undercover.....

Those of you who have known me for a while, may remember that on this day in 2020, the enigma that is Mr Pickles the plumber, asked for my hand in marriage. (He actually asked if I'd like to share his plunger, but let's not nitpick.)

Anyway, I haven't seen him at all since then, and I assumed he'd been in lock down. But no! It seems he'd been locked up....for smuggling designer knickers into Kazakhstan. His lawyer (the 'briefs brief' as Pickles refers to him) got him out on condition that he stopped illicitly lingering in lingerie!

This morning, I received the above photo, and a very sweet letter from him (written in green ink on shiny loo paper), breaking off our engagement.

"Dear Fat Blonde wot finks she's a doctor, but can't tell a rectal fermometer from a tube of poppin' candy (every time I go to the loo, me bum goes off like Krakatoa), you're dumped. I've 'ad to go into 'idin, cos Chanel 'ave put a contract out on me. As you can see, I've 'ad to join a very secret society wot wears 'ead to toe masks, in order to keep safe. (If you're lookin' for me, the secret society is called KnickerNickers Anonymous.)

PS You still owe me for three sprockets. Pay up or I'll send Stinky Dave round to block yer u-bend.

Hugs, Pickles"


Secret society? Cult!