Well the Corduroy Appreciation Society (UK) convened in a suitable hostelry in the fine village of Peetabara, East Midlands. They were there, from the East, the South and the North. The gentleman driving the motor-taxi had struggled to understand the one from the North. Understandable, for this is the most East Midland’s most East Midlandish bit of the East Midlands. Cheeese is the central part of the diet. And Pork Pies.
Fish and chips and mushy bees were consumed. And Mexican stuff. And stakes, given that this is the neck of the woods where Vincent Price was The Witch Finder generally. Wine was quaffed (or beer or agua (I’m a Barbie Girl. In a Barbie World. It’s Tangfastic even with elastic) or Red Grape Shluuuh for the young ‘un) and then back to watch “Road Wars”. And something about Weather. More Wining. G’night Gran’ma. G’night John-Boy. Et cetera.
And then the morning. Two statuesque ladies, possibly of easy virtue, arguing with a diminutive chap over the payment of their fees for an evening of entertainment. An interesting aside. And said diminutive looking somewhat vexed as he, one assumes, had expected a little more of what he fancied whilst the statuesque ladies were having none of it.
Leicester is flexing her finger. Journey on Corduroyists.