Ffinch was a disordered chap. He’d received a slow cooker as a Christmas gift from his sister the year before and decided to cook this year’s turkey in it. But now his confused state took over as the clock ticked: his sis and her brood would arrive in under an hour. Ffinch whined at the slow cooker, “I wish you would hurry up.”
He was that sort of guy – he’d put his hand in front of his face and see his foot. At the surgery he’d greet the doc, 'How are you?'
Tell you what, Ffinch would fail his metaphysical.
He was that sort of guy – he’d put his hand in front of his face and see his foot. At the surgery he’d greet the doc, 'How are you?'
Tell you what, Ffinch would fail his metaphysical.
