Duck dressing, but not a single slopped dripper

I want to begin by saying that while walking on Red Rooster’s lawn, a char-faced man I'd spy. He blew into his handkerchief and stuttered as he sighed. I wish I'd play the doodah horn, the doodah horn is fine. I'd sell my house and ferny coach to make this daydream mine. I thank you, I feel better now.

So, yeah, Friday. I had my work cut out. First off to the launderette to see my newest French friend, then into town in the pissing rain for a spot of shopping. Back home in time to make a vat of soup before back to the launderette for hilarious bed linen folding capers. It was all go. A spot of housework, three hours writing, then guests K&I for champagne, a trip to Bergerac station to track down J and off to L’Enfance de Lard for a slap up.

A splendid day all told, and the finale of dancing along to the Ching-A-Long Song in the style of Lindsay Kemp was surely evidence of that. Thankfully, no photos exist.