Dear Miss Poptoe,
Your recent dissertation about babies in the workplace prompted me to post a reply, but regretfully life in the shires can be a dizzy whirl of bucolic activities thus delaying my response. My latest mission is to track down replacement poultry. Were you aware that I am currently between hens? Dahlia was mortally savaged by a marauding badger, Sky succumbed to a mystery fowl pest, whilst Henrietta and Violet had their necks terminally stretched. The demise of the two latter was a fortuitous demonstration of pragmatism and the inexorable realities of life and death, as I expounded to my grandchildren. Hens are primarily oviducts with legs and feathers, and failure to produce a regular supply of eggs leads to the pot via the herb garden.
But I digress – babies in the workplace. No doubt you are cognizant of the film The Empire Strikes Back? Well an event many years ago was a case of a baby making vengeful retaliation. I was in the early days of maternity, my fecundity amply demonstrated not only by the sleeping infant in my lap, but by the lacticly bountiful bosoms and still voluptuous proportions in my middle region. (To be truthful, the analogy of a collapsed soufflé springs to mind.) Content in my domestic seclusion, I was visited by the female (young and single) who had replaced me at my place of employment. In she shimmied, lithe, taut, pert and fashionably garbed, radiating lissom beauty, freedom and wealth. The baby soon adjusted my visitor’s complacent facial expression with a well aimed posset down the back of her angora jumper and a trail of nappy overflow that extruded lava-like down her snugly fitting newly purchased trousers. She beat a hasty retreat, never to darken my doorstep again, and I’ve ever since had a fondness for the black and mustard colour combination.
Pip pip dear thing,