No Night Sweats N o  N i g h t  S w e a t s No Night Sweats
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Crime Fiction is Silly
[ Expletive Deleted ]
As time rolls inexorably onwards I’ve started to expectorate a swear word or two at a frequency which sometimes astounds me. I used to keep these invectives very well hidden indeed and would only drag them out for those special occassions when nothing but harsh words would do. Although I’m hardly at that low-down stage of using them as a general purpose adjective (as in “Hey Annette, I’m goin’ down the f*in’ shop to get some f*in’ milk.”), I have sometimes caught myself in the act of cursing loudly and violently at a game of Rugby League that has turned sour or at yet another government minister babbling on incessantly or, even, at the state of the weather these days. 

One of my dearest friends would say that this is just another facet of my slowly continuing metomorphosis into a COB (Cranky Old Bastard – copyright Sue) and, I suppose, there is more than an element of truth in that. However, as in all things Monday Missive, the truth, and nothing but the truth, lies in my past – and I’m talking way, way back this time. 

Apparently one of my first ever words was a mild expletive. As mum and dad took me on a train trip somewhere I perched myself on one of their legs, looked out the window and said, in time with the rhythm of the wheels clacking on rails, “bugger-bugger, bugger-bugger, bugger-bugger, bugger-bugger”. I think I got this from my dad as it was one of his favourite oaths when something went wrong. Either that or else I was (and still am) possessed by a daemon from hades! 

“Erk alors, you f*in’ bastard, where’s the soap? I want to scrub out that dirty, filthy, most vile mouth!”.
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