Ah, but remember sir: direction is a relative concept.
Whilst you are a northern b*****d to her, you're very much a southern b*****d to me, given my current locale. I shall therefore have my domestic return the handsome black pudding to the pantry.
I thank you for the advice, but shall respectfully decline on two counts:
1) "Normal" human beings do not necessarily profane to make a point when wit has a sharper blade.
2) Johnson & Shakespeare never met.
Dear lady, take a tip from nature.
Sharks never pour their own chum, then follow its scent before impaling their impressive jaws on the waiting hooks. It makes them look very silly.
Oh dear!
Even the great Souter has failed to hit the mark. I fear only one course of action remains open: The Hon Man.
I know, I know, but extreme circumstances require extreme measures...
My dear chap, you have me worried.
The last time we crossed literary swords it was a decent duel. Now it would be like fighting Mr Benn with a limp daffodil.
I know nothing of this resignation malarkey but your quill has been blunted and no mistake. Take heart from the words of your city's finest wordsmith - no not the surrogate McGonagall, but the much admired Soapy Souter:
"Jings Wullie! Ah canna go doon Stoorie Brae wi the Gaswork Gang waitin' at the other end!"
Never ceases to inspire me in my dark moments that.
Jesus, shows how long I've been away!
Last time I looked it was the ignoramii tag-teaming against us, now we're battling with each other? Can see why I don't come here any more...