may I make a plea on behalf of old barmaids? The popular image of the "busty barmaid", so beloved of the saucy postcard and the innuendo-driven sitcom, is a risible and sexually-charged popular image. It is not an image that lends itself to the pathetic, nor does it give pause.
And why should it, when that barmaid in question carries the sheen of youthful brio and sex-appeal?
But let me stop you there, before your mind is too heavily-populated with pictures of raucous saloon bars where gentlemen punters lean across counters towards the alluring, beer-pump fondling femmes fatales whose very charms vouchsafe a healthy profit for the breweries.
Let me stay you, I say. For what becomes of these saloon-bar sirens, these hotel houris, these Dog & Duck dryads, when they become old?
No one wants to buy beer from his own grandmother, much less chat her up in the ale-sodden bleary mists of a last-chance saloon afternoon session. Think of the consequences. Oedipus eat your heart out.
No one wants to gaze into the eyes of his mother-in-law when ordering a pint of Dudderwicke's Old Scrofulous; still less does a red-blooded alcoholic wish to look upon the corrugated visage of a Macbeth's witch as he orders his 9th quadruple whisky of the afternoon.
So spare a thought for Peggy, once the darling of the lunchtime crowd at the Crooked Banker & Unfeasible Bonus, now working as a scarecrow in remote Dorset. Or Rosie, who wowed the GIs in several wartime Nuneaton hostelries, but now works as a moored balloon in Norfolk. Finally, I give you Gracey, in latter days dividing her time between working as fish bait in the Humber Estuary and earning a few pennies as a gargoyle, but who in her halcyon days wowed... (cont on page 3234)
I am writing this to your, in the sincere belief that it may strike a with your readers who, I sure will be sensitive to the plight of a very special group of.
For 30 years, we at the Society For Those Who Keep Missing From Their Sentences, have worked tirelessly on behalf of our members.
One of the achievements we are most of is the establishment of a team of Word-Inserters, whose special role it is to insert the missing into the writings of those we are proud to.
But Word- cost money. I feel sure your readers would not want them to for nothing. And so it is in the spirit of this that I am appealing to your, to them if they might be to spare any old items of clothing - viz, any old trilbies, or spats, or a buff jerkin - which we are able, by selling them on to wandering lunatics, to turn into hard cash with which we can pay our Word-Inserters the wages they.
Please try to. It will much appreciated.
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I rednow, nac uoy, ro ruoy sredaer, esihtapme htiw a yrev laiceps puorg fo elpoep? Nac uoy enigami tahw ti si ekil, ot evah ot etirw lla ruoy sdrow sdrawkcab? On? I thguoht ton. Ron dluow I tcepxe, ro hsiw, uoy ot evah ot ecneirepxe hcus a gniht.
Tub esaelp nac uoy tsuj yrt ot dnatsrednu, neve a elttil, eht thgilp fo esoht suht detcilffa?
Fi uoy nac, neht I ma erus uoy lliw leef taht uoy lliw tnaw ot pleh.
Dnes ni esoht detnawnu sgab fo dratsuc redwop, deffuts slee, dna Reltih Htuoy smrofinu (fi uoy ssessop yna fo eht Tniap Gnola Htiw Floda Reltih Seires, yllaicepse the Llits Efil Ni Eht Reknub Retsae 5491 Laiceps, ew lliw eb yrev lufetarg ot evah eseht).
Sruoy ni noitapicitna,
Emad Adlih Etwolchsid,