F@ck this for a joke—just buy someone. I don’t care if it’s another tea lady. I can feel it in the air. Bedfordblue is winding everyone up, the unconcerned are suddenly concerned, and the concerned are down at the launderette with bedsheets carefully concealed in black garbage bags. The wise are buying stocks in manufacturers of mattress protectors. The reek of piss is nauseating and is only exceeded by the fragrant waft of paranoia in the GOT air.
But I know it, and almost everyone I have seen today knows it too. We know it because we feel it. We’ve been here before. The missus frets, the dog sulks and sh-ts on the carpet. My neighbour stays in all day and there are no lights on. His wife hasn’t been seen for several days, but I see him roam outside with an axe at night muttering something about Douglas, James, and Jack—and he doesn’t even follow Everton. I argue with the lady postie about lousy delivery and then, ashamed, I immediately rush back inside to lie down on damp bedsheets, another victim of whatever it is in the air. I scan Grand Old Team. People are wound up so tight I expect the whole place to off with a big TWANG! Chicoazul (as always) chimes in with a sterling impression of "Yes, Minister".
And then we have the so-called ‘unconcerned’ saying “Everything will be just fine”. Liars. Dissembling rogues. We see the ‘spot of shame’ hiding behind your bravado.
Well played
@Bedfordblue.

See ya in the Bomb Shelter!