Nice of Sir Stuart to pop by Pumsey Towers the other day for a glass of Vimto and a natter. Curious that he had his own latchkey, but I do know that Lady Veronica takes an interest in fashion and I can vouch for Sir Stuart's taste as I glimpsed a rather racy string above the waistband of his hipster Autograph suit. He spluttered a bit on entering, but once the ol' Rose Royce got started, he was smoothness itself.
Let me explain. Rose may have missed his bonus target but the malnutrition that will inevitably strike the Paddington Basin workhouse has not yet addled his famously sly brain. "Pumsey, you old bastard," he smirked. "I've just hit on a bit of a ruse here that could make your pathetic DRIP salary look like the wage of a deputy cheese buyer at Somerfield."
Poor old Rosie. He seems not to realise I'm more loaded than an OFT price probe. But I nodded as if in eager anticipation, in the hope he might give himself enough rope. "Look, old boy," he said, his reptilian arm snaking across my shoulder. "Some of the Magic & Sparkle seems to have gone out of it recently. Anyway, we've had a think and we reckon stocking Angel Delight and Crosse & Blackwell Balti Bangers might bring some of the riff-raff back into the store. Once we've got over the smell they might even be persuaded to part with their benefit cash, eh?"
I shuddered as his lips came within an inch of my shell-like. "Thing is," he whispered, "we don't want to look too much like a supermarket, and Fingleton's already making guttural Irish grunting noises. There might be something in it for you if you can keep Johnny Fingers off our back. What do you say?"
A swell of pride entered my body. Unfortunately, a well of Pride exited in the same breath (it was a long night in the Commons on Tuesday). At least he'll discover whether vomit comes out of an M&S suit.
Let me explain. Rose may have missed his bonus target but the malnutrition that will inevitably strike the Paddington Basin workhouse has not yet addled his famously sly brain. "Pumsey, you old bastard," he smirked. "I've just hit on a bit of a ruse here that could make your pathetic DRIP salary look like the wage of a deputy cheese buyer at Somerfield."
Poor old Rosie. He seems not to realise I'm more loaded than an OFT price probe. But I nodded as if in eager anticipation, in the hope he might give himself enough rope. "Look, old boy," he said, his reptilian arm snaking across my shoulder. "Some of the Magic & Sparkle seems to have gone out of it recently. Anyway, we've had a think and we reckon stocking Angel Delight and Crosse & Blackwell Balti Bangers might bring some of the riff-raff back into the store. Once we've got over the smell they might even be persuaded to part with their benefit cash, eh?"
I shuddered as his lips came within an inch of my shell-like. "Thing is," he whispered, "we don't want to look too much like a supermarket, and Fingleton's already making guttural Irish grunting noises. There might be something in it for you if you can keep Johnny Fingers off our back. What do you say?"
A swell of pride entered my body. Unfortunately, a well of Pride exited in the same breath (it was a long night in the Commons on Tuesday). At least he'll discover whether vomit comes out of an M&S suit.
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