5.5? Kin Ell, that's good going.
Look at darling little Paws, he must come in tonight, it's raining.
Hear me now - a confession only you will ever know. Just had Mr C's memorial dinner out with mates. Sea bass, he would have approved. But I kept having to go out to release not ladylike grief, but MASSIVE FARTS.
The second time I scuttled round the corner and let rip, the bliss, a bloody mastiff on a walk across the road pricked up his ears and barked at me 
The third time I nipped out my mate said 'Enjoy that fag'. If I'd lit up London's fashionable Balham Village would be Chernobyl now.
Who knew grief was relentless flatulence?
Bet asbo sympathises after the Five Pouch Festival.