Pimple had no life experience upon which to draw and so stood still as ordered, a little like his reaction to his mother’s assertions. Well, that was some sort of life experience he supposed. ‘Stubborn little bugger isn’t it, I may have to see if I can draw it out with my mouth. Now be a love and help me through the window, please.’
Pimple did, managing an accompanying ‘Er, er…’ several octaves above his normal speaking register, which naturally modulated closer to soprano than tenor anyway.
Ms Lovebody was through and she straightened her flimsy summer dress, lowered the toilet seat, flushed, at the same time admonishing Pimple with a look his mother would be proud of, enquiring if Pimple’s mother had not taught him to flush the toilet after him. She dropped to the seat and grabbing the
