Halal Horror!

Dear reader, old Monty is no cove for overstatement. But when I think of Emily, I think of one word: Spunk.

Tadger has implied a quiet country upbringing. Doubtless she bloomed in some sunny-walled old Rectory, where mullioned inglenooks looked down upon the moss of centuries. A world where “mutton rogan josh” was but a rumour, unbelieved, a fleeting shadow on the grass, as of the pixies' flute.

Yet this tiny creature of exquisite sensibility has honed her elfin frame into a thunderbolt of light. Today, as your chum nibbled quietly on a bicky, engrossed in a stimulating episode of “Countdown”, where Miss Carol Vorderman appeared to some advantage, the doorbell unexpectedly rang. ‘Twas Emily, braving the blustery showers in a cosily practical PVC catsuit, alongside "Lippy" Hetherington, the doyen of the camera club. “We’ve taken some photographs, Montague old man”, he winkingly confided with a gesture to the nose. “One does like to ply the old Nikon for the cause!”

A few moments later I sat in silenced awe. Selflessly defying her agonising shyness, the child had portrayed the plight of blonds in the cous-cousy hands of the maniacs of Mecca! Will nobody answer those pleading eyes? Can any boast of manhood when a shard of glass remains in the windows of the Golden Horn Kebab ‘n’ Pizzeria? Let Chorleywood decide!