Donkey Sanctuaries

Let's convert them for human use ...

I have a dream. An English meadow, lush, green and quite devoid of buzzing insect life. A babbling brook babbling somewhere in a corner set aside for brooks. Huge, overstuffed, sofas scattered about randomly with side tables set at a jaunty angle. Flunkies with stiff upper lips and silver salvers serving Pimms and Gin & Tonic and asparagus snacks and peppermint creams at the tinkle of a little bell. Musclebound chaps and chapesses in white uniforms on hand to move gout-ridden feet from footstool to cushion or to turn the other cheek where one's favourite cheek may have gone numb or fallen foul of a button in the upholstery. People sanctuaries. Somewhere I can sit and no-one expects anything of me other than to just be, to exist and no more. At dusk we guests would be wheeled back into the stables, tucked up and given cocoa. In the morning, woken gently, offered toast and wombled eggs and wheeled back out to the well-aired sofas again to be shown the fluffy new clouds passing by.

Terribly English earthquakes

We do have them, you know, it's just that we hold them overnight so as not to disturb.

Her Majesty's Meteorological Office

Five seasons in one day, in no particular order, umbrellas recommended at all times.

Colonial types, panic about Dinosaur killers, must live under rocks...

...that sort of thing. Load of foreign tosh if you ask me. Ruddy meterorites indeed!

Ma'am's website

Dreadful new look .gov.uk site. Bloody awful.

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