I was having a very pleasant day out on the Ecclesall Road; t’ sun was shinin,’ an’ ah’d ‘ad a reet grand stroll in that Endcliffe Park, popped into Felicini’s for a spot of snap an’ bought missen a bunch of carnations at that lovely Katie Peckett’s - bit pricey they were, but she is a florist to the stars an’ ye do ‘ave to pay fer that an’ they’re in a shade of red that’ll show off my black sheets a treat. Well, I was just lookin’ in t’ window of Guiseppe’s ‘airdressers an’ wondering whether ti treat missen ti a purple Mohican, when ye’ll nivver, in a month of Sundays, believe what ‘appened.
This fella, big brute of a chap he was, came out o’ nowhere and man-handled me into his car. A Vauxhall Astra – I wouldn’t normally know owt like that, except that my boyfriend, Wayne,’s boss ‘as one in an unusual shade of puce and its sorta stuck ‘cos o’ what happened at t’ office party – they call it that, but its not really an office, it’s Kwik-Fit’s car-inspection pit, but it can be very cosy when its got up with a bit o’ tinsel and there’s no doubt about it, those lace-up thigh boots can be a thrill to a man whose wife slops about in Damart slippers. Ooo, look at me, ye don’t want to know about that...it wasn’t a pleasant ending, anyway.
Where was l? Oh, yea. I only know that I glimpsed the police station out of t’ window and read in huge letters, ‘
Course, I should be back ‘ome whisking up a few Yorkshire Pudding’ for my
A fair few years ago, an angel ‘ad a day off frev ’eaven an’ was floating aboot ovver t’
Angel sat in t’ nook o’ t’ fire an sipped her mug o’ tea, munchin’ on two drippin’ slices an’ a Sally Lunn, whilst woman looked up a’ t’ clock and busied herself saying, “Ye’ll ‘ave ti excuse me, love. School bell’ll be gannin’ an’ my man’ll be in fer ‘is tea. You sit there, whilst I mix up some puddin’s.” A little lad sat up in ’is ’igh chair teckin’ in what was goin’ on. Well, t’angel sat watching it all fer a few minutes an’ then she jumped up.
“ ’Ere gie us yer bowl and let mi do it. Ah’ll show thi ‘ow we mek t’ puddin’s for Saints Peter and Paul. Flour, milk, salt, eggs...now, hush.”
Schoolmaister’s wife gawped as t’ ‘eavenly lass stuck ’er wing i’ t’ bowl, stirrin’ the mixture like an artist ed paint wi a brush. Puddin’s so light an’ airy that they fair floated ti t’oven.
“It’s nowt i’ t’flour or watter that matters. Just mek sure that tha meks it wi’ luv.” The angel thanked the wife fer ‘er kindness. “Gie it nobbut ten minutes,” she said, as she lifted the child to kiss ’im, afore flyin’ off, leavin’ t’ first
Can’t be the chap that shoved me in ’ere then, can it? If I’m not mistaken you’ll find him here today, ransacking my ‘ouse. I just ‘ope he doesn’t come across the shibari ropes and nipple clamps or that’ll be my career gone fer a burton. If only I’d not hesitated and chanced the purple Mohican, this would nivver ’ave ’appened.