The Roof Man Cometh

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TRAGEDY STRIKES. Gwen’s roof is like a soggy Weetabix – at least the flat bit is. That’s what the surveyor said, yesterday. The whole thing will have to be replaced

And, would you believe it, she wants me to pay half the cost. ME! – A lodger! I told her I was broke, skint, in Queer Street.

You know what she had the nerve to say? Well, you could get a loan.
Now who is going to give me a loan?

Of course things could be worse. We could be living in Kabul. Which would you prefer: a bomb up your alley or a Weetabix roof? I saw on the TV news that the Taliban have been busy again: another suicide bomber, another 7 killed and I don’t know how many injured.

You see that’s the difference between different religions and cultures. I suppose disenchanted elements in England would just sneak up in the night and damage people’s roofs. Come to think of it, how do I know that is not the case with Gwen’s roof? It could be the work of the PFLS (The Popular Front for the Liberation of Swindon)
I jest of course. In this country we just couldn’t be arsed. Do you know that song “… As soon as this pub closes, the revolution starts”? As regards your friend: Vadassy does not sound like a Latvian name to me. I should keep an eye on him. He may be after your money!

And I wish you would not keep going on about those videos. SIX – that’s all I took. And I only took them because your brother owed ME money. In any case I haven’t got them now. I passed them on to my brother, Hector (you remember him? You should do, you had a bit of a fling with him. Nothing wrong with that. I’m not jealous. Water under the bridge and all that) to dispose of via his Fulham contacts.
I should have known better. I haven’t seen him since. Or the videos. OR the money.

How long do you plan to stay with sister Sophia? Is she the one with the thick ankles?