Thread by @MarkFrancois12

Extracts from the plague diary of Mark ne-Francois-Pepys

April 11th

Up to the sound of Hartley-Brewer removing my chamber pot with much fussikins and exclaiming ‘Something rotten is in this state of your den Mark’ and I did counter smugly

1/11

‘Dunno what you’re fussing about, I just halved my BMI’
At eating my breakfast of Sugar Puffs made with Monster all the morning did reminisce on last Easter Saturday whence I ventured to all-you-can-eat at the Toby Calvary but with nothing of the like ordained this year,

2/11

I set to raising my spirits by bathing in the yellow skip full of rusty water at the front of my property. Across the cul-de-sac my Lady Widdecombe doing the same in her skip. ‘Great minds think alike hey Anne’ I called, to which she replied ‘arsworm’,

3/11

I believe a most affectionate term, having never looked it up.
After having sat an hour laughing with Lord Sugar on Facetime, resolved to call my boy Bridgen to fish the little black bags of dog eggs from the water I was floating in, and surprised to see

4/11

Thornberry at returning from Holland and Barrett on foot, that she is used to being driven everywhere by her coachmen Lord Campbell, but he is chaufferloughed.
Received her with discontent and after some little discourse, she resolved to get in on the action too

5/11

and spake ‘Ooh hi Marky, are you not a little cold. Don’t you remember when you had hypothermia and you couldn’t do your lollipop man shift because you were too cool for school’
And I replied ‘Siri, show me an annoying neighbour’ and Thornberry replied,

6/11

‘Jolly good, I’ll come and join you in a shake of a Pomeranian’s tail’.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake’ spake Widdecombe from her Monday Club Lilo, a bobbing head just visible beyond the lip of her tawny waste disposal solution and a short while later Thornberry, that she be

7/11

be inclined to two if not three-upmanship, was afloat astride an inflatable swan inside her 20-foot roll-on roll-off skip. At noon, shirtless aback a stallion with case of Diamond White Cider on his shoulder comes the Raab, to ask if we’ve seen Rees-Mogg, and remind us that

8/11

the lockdown continues for reasons apparent to everyone other than Peter Hitchens, & that whilst bathing in oxidized water on our respective properties be fyne, public assembly is not & we must remain stationary or face arrest. Thornberry did reply he should stop
swanning
9/11

around like a millennial as if he rents the place and piss off to ciderspace to do free speech with Toby Young, or mayke inventory of his dumbells or whatever it is maniacs do in their spare time, & he rode his steed to within a betting slip of Thornberry’s face & roared

10/11

that not even his Sensei speaks to him like that and she should watch herself and then he galloped down the street, and she said ‘that psycho is unbereavable’ and despite our differences, we nodded, for a brief moment our cul de sac united by circumstance. Curly Wurly. Bed.

Let's hear it for @Will_Overman's portrayal of the day to day happenings of a 17th century cul-de-sac.