It has ever been my earnest wish that an account of my life and work would be chronicled by someone with a gift for prose and a way with words that makes even the most prosaic of cleaning experiences a joy to read accompanied by a glass of port with the worries of the world held afar. Obviously, Churchill himself is no longer with us but I'd ever hoped and dreamed that a keen student of the great wordsmith would pick up their pen and take down my memories to preserve for future generations.
Alas, it was not to be.
The author of this "blog" (I'm assured that's the correct term) is, one supposes, a decent enough chap who at least has British heritage even if he was born in the antipodes. His line of questioning lacks the probing insight of a Parkinson but at least he bathed regularly and always took care to place his beverage on the coaster provided. During our time together I've grown quite fond of him despite his reluctance to deeply engage with matters of cleanliness in favour of discussing the musicians who tramped the mud across my polished floors.
Alas, it was not to be.
The author of this "blog" (I'm assured that's the correct term) is, one supposes, a decent enough chap who at least has British heritage even if he was born in the antipodes. His line of questioning lacks the probing insight of a Parkinson but at least he bathed regularly and always took care to place his beverage on the coaster provided. During our time together I've grown quite fond of him despite his reluctance to deeply engage with matters of cleanliness in favour of discussing the musicians who tramped the mud across my polished floors.
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