Plus One called Nureyev

Behind the stable door on the left was a dangly iron rod that hooked out at the bottom for hanging head collars. The best dandy brush had red bristles. A grey 12.2 pony that rolls has to have this brush.

One day a man from a acting workshop came through like Worzel gummidge with tied on binder twine straw and chill blains so I gave him a pair of lying around fingerless gloves.

Most ponies were hard to get on in the yard with much prancing, except for my ponies as I partly was a legitimate whisperer. Cutting the bull means the reader can establish two semi permanent convicts living above the stables. They were kept in by electric currents and Jacob Marley locks, but for occasional power cut lapses.

There aren’t any people called Rudolph Nureyev left.

A feeding arrangement was established for the men upstairs, by varying degrees of boxed Ribena (meant for the upcoming game fair) and Alpen packets and sandwiches up the sleeve. Alex Kingston was a real nanny groom and not a cameo one like Martina.

How many (entertainment) names do you want?

Second level staffing was occurring up at The Foulford Inn which doesn’t exist anymore. It stood on General Wade’s road (not Cromwell after all) and led along the Almond, a river that still homes a number of annually gathering salmon. Fred and Rosemary West were providing diplomatic scampi to queues of au pairs bent on being involved locally to the East West/ North South Nureyev and Mandela coordinates going on with the Cold War and apartheid of the times.

Very few people knew of the imprisoned identities at the time.

A song about the following came up as the disguise for a one trick pony. It went

I had an aunt

Who had a cat

And that cat

Had a tail

And that tail

Had a curl

Had a tip


And that tip

Had a curl

and so on, back to the beginning. In the end the rendition of this song sealed over most translations of it, covering both triumphs and ordeals as if they were special needs. The convicts were led to be believed as none other than Lord Lucans.

It can be known that Mandela and Nureyev were the very best of friends and there is a book related to what they shared and discussed

But one day Rudolph leapt over Prince’s the welsh mountain’s five barred gate, proving himself to be a contender for a gymnkhana, and not a reluctant debutante. Mandela mostly stayed in hiding up in the black room with only his eyes showing For your eyes only.

Interveningly, torture people bordered as dying rescuers and prisoners. Normal pony days would be intermittently seared with tremble wretched scream scenes, like opening the door to see a man hung where the head collars hung. Or a floor of blood after equine sodomy before being bled out to vigorous hosing down with Jeyes Fluid but for a lovely fresh bale of straw and thorough sweeping. Phew, cut and paste. A horse had a sprain.

Australian au pairs kept applying to work at the Foulford motel, and by dying they could have been travelling on.

Who was always the special little helper filling in the gap?

There was a promiscuous circuit by snakes and ladders, to various 20 mile establishments that could be described evasively as a pub crawl. One house was dropped off for a dreaded recorder practice, only for being let off by people in feathers and wigs.

The dregs of true stories are of a larger detriment wherever people look like the people in the story, as if the telling had been laid on them. Being made to remember is a blessing universally offered by advertising, as opposed to making extremity belong in anyone. I don’t care if you look like Fred West if you don’t remind him of me.


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