Do I look like Peter Stringfellow?
Nine ladies turn up on me doorstep, dancing about like they were auditioning for that Strictly Come or something (Yeah, I'll have 'em "strictly come" later).
I'm now a man alone in a house with 17 women - which would be heaven, but with the PMT, the catfights, the bitching, the screeching, combined with the racket from the avian farmyard in the garden, I'm in Hell.
Tell you what - get me 10 poles tomorrow - (metal ones, not like them maids you sent me yesterday). Ladies dancing? They'll be dirty ho's lap dancing by Xmas. At least I can get the ParcelForce guys round, and give 'em a treat for being put out by your ludcrous present transportation.
Me.
