Aha. My nemesis. I have returned. The God of Onions is laid bare in all his phallacies. Or something. My wife has just returned from a night out to accuse me of being drunk in charge of a word processor. As if! As if the word processor does not have a mind, and even a vocabulary of its own.
Speaking of which. I’m fairly sure Harper Collins don’t publish novels with the word ‘fuckbeans’ in them, so I may need to consult my thesaurus. Or Roger Mellie. One of the two.
it’s a hard knock life. Ok. It isn’t at all. It’s a life made sweeter by alluding to it having something to do with onions. Which as my nearest and dearest will testify, I detest. Unless cut into small enough pieces. And therein lies a lesson for all of us.
A bientot. 1,100 words tonight. I blame the Prosecco for everything. Except the onions. The cheese was probably responsible for that.