@smorgs,
I'm not retired.
Only this very morning I drove many miles over misty moorlands in a truck fitted with a driver's side wing-mirror which some chump had re-designed in Cracked Modern to give the impression of being overtaken by 15 vehicles, on the straight bits, to deliver a truck load of expensive rubbis which a gentleman, who favours the strategy of doing what his wife instructs him to do was deploying in the next few days to tart up the rear of his house in such a way as to reflect the majesty of Her Divinity to maximum advantage considering all the circumstances. It was one of those journeys on which it was quite tiresome not to be able to settle on one of the four windscreen wiper settings available today thanks to our Christian system of operations on behalf of the fair sex. With a horse and cart along rough pathways I would have been at it for two weeks.
The idea was to provide a system of operation to save all but the four hours I took of the 336 hours of the two weeks of my Old Joseph style predecessor would have taken at the time lovely Emily was chewing her pencil end thinking up how to raise daftness to the highest power, --the idea was, as I was saying, to free more time in order to make love to that divine creature which has driven many an artist clean out of his wits.
Which, I suppose means, on meditating the matter mournfully, that the tarting up of the rear garden is by way of foreplay. I'm a ******* pimp. I've sold out. I should, as a man of principle, have jumped down from the cab and after shaking hands, he was a bloody handshaker on top, rendering my sympathy reduction switch operative, explained to him the utter foolishness of his foreplay technique.
But Art comes first. And Andy said that Money is the only art left. And I believe him. So I didn't explain, Art trumping compassion as it does, and, in fact, encouraged him and even expressed a degree of admiration as he discoursed upon his plans and remarked that his garden was a sun-trap and that his wife would be able to sunbathe on the patio when they had been brought to fruition. And he didn't even grin sheepishly which suggests to me that he is unaware of being under the cosh.
Is my type spacing after punctuation marks to your satisfaction now smorgsie? It was you who gave me a little lesson in that respect. Am I making the sort of progress you approve of? Even I will admit that I approve of the results of your little lesson, graciously delivered as it was. Are there any other little lessons that you might think would improve my literary skills or general all-round dexterity?
In return, as a mark of gratitude, might I suggest something you may not have tried before.
If you are stuck with a word you don't think quite right go to Google and type the word plus thesaurus and a range of choices is displayed almost as soon as you click search. I chose "dexterity" there from a range of options after considerable deliberation.
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