The Lost List_Lost In Cockney_A Dropped Ball_Redneck Without a Plan
Catalog Guide:
The Lost List
Henry isn’t your average guy. Unless your idea of an average guy includes making spreadsheets for everything he plans to do every day, from brushing his teeth in the morning to brushing them again at night, and everything else in between. With time-allotments.He’s a retired accountant. However, his organizational skills still show up for work full-time. During his in-office career, he created his fair share of columns and rows. However, bathroom breaks and dog walks were never line items then—they are now. Things have changed since the days he clocked in at the tech company. He’d hoped to work...
Lost In Cockney
“Me slabs are killin’ me, me minces are sore from the chimney backin’ up, and I’ve been on the dog and bone all mornin’ sittin’ at the bottom of the apples, offering bangers and mash to anyone that could come on short notice to clean the chimney - but I don’t have a Danny-La-Rue when that will be. Me ol’ china’s a sweep but the trouble and strife don’t care for him, so to avoid a barney, I won’t ask him over.” Lord Peabody stood with mouth agape at the apparent foreign language one of London’s most colourful dialects had just thrust upon his person - like an assault of cryptic gibberish cryin...
A Dropped Ball
“Lose weight, tick…”“Hey, hold on! What weight did you lose?”“I lost almost two pounds.”“When?”“In January.”“Have you weighed yourself since then?”“…No, but I wrote my end-of-December and beginning-of-January weights down on a piece of tape and stuck it to the back of the scales as a guide…”“Rightwww.onedoor.cc, wait there, I’ll get the scales.”“…While you’re doing that, I’m going to tick… Stop procrastinating… no, I’ll tick that later… How’s about, Exercise more… yes, that’s a tick…”“Here’s the scales. It’s a little dusty. Obviously not been used for a while, but… I need the evidence, if I’m to lose my bet...
Redneck Without a Plan
CONTENT WARNING: violence, gore, naughty words, substance abuse“Not me, Chuck, no way. I ain’t never gon need a plan. Nope. I’m a ‘fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of guy.” I flick ice chunks off my beer and close the cooler. Me and my buddy, Chuck, spent the day muddin’. Now we’s pontificatin’— otherwise known as, “shootin-the-shit”, whilst guzzlin cold ones and chill-axing in a lawn chair perched on the bed of my ’85 Ford Pickup. Chuck’s eyes glaze over as he draggs long and hard from a bong, big as my head. He leans back, shirtless, showin off his shiny white, bird chest and all its glory....