Crusty, Fanny and the Tale of the Creamy Fingers

One awoke that morning feeling a little bloated. Though still maintaining an agreeable level of elegance (naturally), one felt one had mysteriously gained a little more weight through one’s slumbers; yes, one had enjoyed a rather erotic time in one’s dreams sharing some bowls of whipped double cream and sticky toffee pudding with one’s delicious poppet Jake Canuso … and in various positions … but one knew it wasn’t possible to increase one’s weight as a result. This is not Elm Street after all.

It was all highly bizarre and, naturally, it turned one’s mood.

One’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, acutely aware of one’s morning bout of sadness, tried to do what he could to cheer one up. He tried to mount one’s pussy, Crotchet, and ride him side saddle along the corridor outside one’s quarters; one could not even raise a smile. Even when Crotchet repaid the compliment by clawing at Chu Me’s clothing with short, sharp blows of his curled up, claw-extended paws and hissing wildly, one still took no interest.

The two walked off slowly, Chu Me’s shoulders slumped with disappointment and Crotchet’s tail dragging lifelessly along the carpet behind him.

As one dressed in appropriate attire for breakfast, one could see from one’s dressing room window that Chu Me had decided to make a special trip to the side of the stables to collect some fresh eggs from his hens. One caught sight of him as he picked up the elliptical shells of creamy yolkiness and put them in his wicker basket - his hens scurrying around his feet with pride and joy at a job well done. Bending down to cup his hand around the underside of his cock, he squeezed it lovingly to his chest and kissed it on the head before he released it, setting it back on the ground next to his feet (one could almost hear the thud through the double glazing … it is a mighty beast indeed). Leaving the coop, he secured the padlock on the door and headed back toward the residence.

A small glistening droplet of ocular liquid forced itself from one’s right tear duct as one realised the love he had for these creatures and indeed for ensuring one had the best of everything. It was clearly one’s weakened state that caused such an unnecessarily emotional reaction at such an early hour of the day. Taking a deep breath and clenching one’s hands into stylish and epidermally soft fists, one established composure once more and made one’s way down the staircase of the Great Hall to the breakfast room. The household staff were busying away with their chores while trying to be inconspicuous. The one brushing the stairs was, however, certainly not. One did not have the energy to say anything and decided the kick one executed to her right thigh would have to be enough.

Sat in the breakfast room with one’s gorgeous North East legend Colin his-twinkle-makes-me-tingle Briggs relaying the local news on BBC Breakfast, one settled down for something to fuel one for the day. One put Chu Me’s eggs into one’s mouth and found them extremely creamy - with just the right amount of saltiness. Yet despite this,  one’s mood did not improve. The lightweight Masato ensemble of natural fabrics one had chosen, along with diamond mounted accessories should have made one feel utterly fabulous most certainly, yet one could not help but feel a little uncomfortable as the gorgeous fabric clung a little too tightly to one’s shapely frame.

Checking one’s social calendar, one noted one had arranged to meet one’s dear friend Fanny O’Dour – landlady of the Badger’s Snatch – for some refreshment. We had agreed to visit the local coffee shop rather than attend her own watering hole. One often felt she spent her life there and it was always nice to have a change of surroundings. Her husband, Willy O’Dour, was more than capable of running the show for a few hours … and quite right too.

At 11.04am, one set off in GUSSET 2 from the crunching gravel drive of one’s beloved Crusty Hall and sped down the winding country lanes towards the heart of the village, the delicious sounds of one’s treasured and iconic poppet, Holly Johnson filling the cabin with melodious joy.

Fanny was waiting on the bench at the corner of the village green when one arrived, reading (with alarm, one imagined) a pamphlet that looked suspiciously like the ones handed out by the vicar’s wife, Marjorie Flecks, whenever she had a singing recital planned. One parked the Aston in one’s usual place and sashayed elegantly across the black and glistening tarmac of the road to join her.  Despite the inclement weather, there was a warmth in the air and a breeze that brushed one’s soft cheeks like that one enjoyed annually on the shores of one’s beloved Montgat.

“Crusty!” She squealed and extended her arms. We kissed each other affectionately on each cheek, linked arms and made our way towards the coffee shop. Telling her of one’s misery at feeling a little plumper today she attempted to cheer one up.

“Don’t talk nonsense, Crusty! You look as radiant as ever and you have a figure to die for.”

It certainly seemed to help. As she pressed the latch of the coffee shop door and we entered to the sound of the bell suspended above, one’s spirits did indeed lift, even in the face of resting one’s eyes on the horrendously long queue of people at the counter.  Perhaps one wasn’t as temporarily overweight as one had thought.

Anyhoo … eventually, a rather sorry looking individual got round to serving us.

“Good morning, Dame Crusty. Sorry about your wait” she announced.

“Sorry about one’s weight?!”  One screeched. One was outraged!

“And one’s sorry about your saggy tits, fat arse and rather unkempt yellow hair, dear! Now, two creamy fingers and a pot of tea if you please!!”

As the embarrassed individual curtsied and turned quickly to tend to one’s needs, Fanny leant forward and whispered in one’s ear. “I think she was referring to the queue, Crusty.”

One stopped and thought for a moment. Ah, the wonders of the English Language. As soon as one realised, Fanny and I giggled like schoolgirls at the misunderstanding, carrying our fayre to our usual table.

Later, as Fanny and I prepared to leave the coffee shop the servant girl came to our table to collect the cups and payment. It was here, one fancies, she tried to get some level of revenge for one’s tiny little mix-up earlier.

“What?! No tip?!” She said, with a hint of venom wisping from her unpleasant breath.

“Oh sorry, poppet” one replied.

Holding her coarse hand with one’s left, one covered the back of it with one’s right and patted it gently. Looking endearingly into her bloodshot eyes one said, “Yes of course, dear … a longer tabbard to cover your arse, a pair of chicken fillets to lift your bangers … oh … and a hat … to hide y’ tatty hair. Good day to you.”

With that, Fanny and I walked out – to the sound of smashing tea cups and a scream - and made our way down the street to the Badger’s Snatch, where we had planned to sneak in through the back but when we came across the drayman pulling off his kegs at the entrance of the beer garden, we instead entered through the lounge entrance and partook of a refreshing glass of Pere Ventura Tresor Reserva Cava before one set off home to the opulent comfort of one's beloved Crusty Hall.

Daphne Dewdrop's Brush With The Law

One had just visited Mr Peppercorn’s butchery emporium for some supplies for the kitchen at one's beloved Crusty Hall. Cook will normally order items to be delivered, however, one always likes the ability to grab some local meat. There’s nothing worse, one finds, than nibbling on a gristly sausage that’s travelled half way around the country ... or getting one’s hands on a hunk of beef that is inadequately hung. One always feels so let down.

Plus – of course - Mr. Peppercorn has been servicing one well for many years; one wouldn’t dream of taking one’s business elsewhere. Whenever cook has a tasty pie on the menu, for example, Mr. Peppercorn always gives one a good filling and when he slips one some of his tongue as an extra … well … let one just say, one takes a little step closer to heaven.

Anyhoo … it was this very morning and he had wrapped up his meat in some greaseproof paper. One grabbed his bulging packet and put it in one’s shopping basket, bid him farewell and headed off to the local bakers, ran by the delightful Pat Tissery. One knew if one could get there early enough, one could beat the queue and be able to get one’s hands on a pair of her crusty bloomers; the yeasty aroma that emanates from them is heavenly and one can never resist holding them up to one’s nasal passages and giving them a good sniff.

Just as one sashayed to the threshold of the traditional purveyor of bready products, one’s glisteningly youthful eyes fell upon local model Veronica Manntrapp; she was just leaving, with a rather unbecoming bag full of cream cakes (One wonders how on earth she maintained her figure! She has the appetite of a farm animal).

“Oh Crusty, I’m glad I’ve seen you. You must go and console Daphne. She’s distraught. She’s been given a police caution by WPC Hel Mett.”

“Goodness! What on earth has happened?!” One exclaimed.

“She was caught driving with her top down. She’s round the corner outside the Chemist, crying her eyes out.”

“One shall tend to it at once.” One reassured her.

Continuing one’s sashay hurriedly, with one’s shopping basket swinging pendulously on one’s forearm, one couldn’t help but be mystified by the predicament that Daphne Dewdrop found herself in. She had always been the village member with the loosest of morals … a party-girl if you will. Often, after a Saturday night out, she could be found slumped back on the wooden bench on the corner of the village green, her knickers round her ankles like an off-white cotton anklet, clutching an almost empty bottle of Diamond White like a much loved kitten. But how on earth could she have found herself receiving a caution for something that wasn’t even illegal! For heaven’s sake, millions of people must be driving round like that when the weather is of agreeable conditions!

Anyhoo … all became clear when one turned the corner and saw her Renault Clio parked outside the Chemist. She has not been stopped for driving in a convertible state, as one had initially thought; WPC Hel Mett had, in fact, given her a warning for driving with her top down, that is to say … her boob-tube pushed down around her waist. It was therefore, hooter exposure that had resulted in her brush with the law and the subsequent stern words from our member of the local constabulary.

Leaning against the sill of the open window on the near side, while maintaining a ballerina-like posture, one attempted to cheer up poor Daphne.

She was sat there with tears streaming down her overly made-up face; mascara was oozing down her rosy cheeks in such meandering swathes it gave her the appearance of a slightly sun-kissed Alice Cooper - only without the wrinkles and unnaturally white teeth. Across the exposed boobage WPC Mett had stuck a parking notice pouch across each of her areas of nipplage to make her a tad more decent than she had been found. A little severe one thought, but when one notices a young boy who had obviously hit a bin and flew over the handlebars to end up head first in the very same refuse receptacle – his legs kicking and his muffled cries for help being ignored - one thought it was, perhaps, the better thing to do.

“Come along, Daphne dear!!” One said heartily. “Stiff upper lip and all that, old thing!”

“I’ve never been so ashamed, Dame Crusty.” She sobbed.

“Now, now … let us consider it a lesson learnt."

“I s’pose” she sniffed, wiping her blackened eyes with a McDonald’s serviette (still encrusted with a piece of fried onion and smear of ketchup from the time it was purchased).

“Incidentally, dear, that yellow in the parking notice pouch suits your colouring magnificently!”

“She looked down towards her hooters and with her chin gathering together like an epidermal concertina, she made an approving, “Mmmm … Do you think?”

“Oh yes! Quite delightful, dear! So, though you may have been in danger of the full force of Her Majesty’s justice being thrust upon you, at least you’ve found another colour for your wardrobe … so every cloud and all that.”

Her spirits visibly lifted, one turned and glided away elegantly along the pavement, humming a adhoc assemblage of notes. A visitor to our charming village heard one as one passed.

" Oooo! That sounds like Cheryl Cole's new song!" She said.

One stopped ... looked at the woman right in her eyes (although it was quite difficult with her right one as it wouldn't rest in one place), looked down at her synthetic attire, back up to her eyes, then slapped her across the dish and stormed off. Outrageous, one thought!

After a few steps, one turned for one last time, to reassure oneself that one’s friend was well. Looking past the unpleasant individual who had insulted one so, as she bent over clutching her left cheek, one saw Daphne. She seemed engrossed in the lifting of her right book to the side of her face to analyse the colour complementation of the sticky pouch in her rear view mirror.

A crisis averted, one placed one's shopping in the back of GUSSET 2 and headed off to the beer garden of the Badger's Snatch for a stiff one with Fanny O'Dour.