Thursday, February 05, 2009


The phone goes, and I feel daring so I answer it.

On the other end of the lines comes the smoothly dulcet Franco-American tones of my landlord's boyfriend's voice.

"He's on the loo at the moment," I say. "And I don't know how long he'll be."
"Ah, an M.P.," comes the reply.
"An M.P.?" I query.
"A Mega Poo! No matter; I shall call back."

Ten minutes later, he does just that, and my landlord answers.
"Sorry about that. W.C.M.P.S.A...."

I let out a guffaw, and, having been met with a curious glance, pretend to cough.


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