I thought I'd start my night of W.C.C with a blog. What is W.C.C you ask? Its a women's syndrome. No, a Kayla syndrome.
Wine. Chocolate. Corrie.
A trio of perfect. The sun, stars and moon of my evening.
Don't pretend you haven't noticed that W.C.C sounds very similar to W.C. An abbreviation for Bog. Shitter. Lavatorial Facility. I assure you, they are very similar.
Friday night. Instead of W.C.C I should be having a D.M.C.
Drink. Mincing. Chunder.
D.M.C, an exact match to "It's tricky to rock and rhyme, right on time, do de dar" (10 points if the song isn't stuck in your head for the next hour).
The effect of village life is taking it's toll. I'm starting to know the day of the week, judging my the customer from that shop, who comes in at exactly 11:34am to pay in 2 cheques, and withdraw a partridge and a pear tree.
No Steven. You don't get withdrawn everyday without your knowledge.
In other news of Kayla Express. I have discovered another use for farting putty.
It is no longer a rubbery device which emits rude, expletive noises, but a gel which makes your nails look awesome.
In my reference to the rant about nail varnish. I have corrected the issue and discovered nail parlors. The once, hippyesuqe "no chemicals" girl who hung nettles in an airing cuppbord is now chemically enhanced. With farting putty on said nails.
All for now