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I've been looking for one of these for years, without success. So I've decided to go ahead and weave my own.
I'll be the envy of my street.
"That man has on a cress poncho!"
And once it becomes part of my everyday wardrobe, I need never be without adornments for sandwich type snacks.
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Hey! Three votes against - that's just plain madness! |
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What ARE you folk thinking of? |
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Of course Cress Poncho makes sense. I may lack imagination, but even I can think that hard-boiled trews and whitebread wings would make a complete statement - together with this 'Cress Poncho'. And a crisps ruecksach, for example. |
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Cress smells very nice - if a little over-reminiscent. I remember the Great Coquet Park Flower Show of '78. We musted all have to bring in a self-made organi-horticultural specimen, and most imaginatively too, in order to win prize. My Mam and me strived hard, then on the great day, the Great Hall (outside our classroom) smelled so overpowering: cress and mustardsf-seeds and tulips knitted in with tapestry; ivy trained high upon kegs of gold; the fine spectacle of boiled-egg policemen painted many-shell-like-bright, and the pipecleaner cars that went wi'em. |
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The hall whiffed of cress. Me and me Mam's wee pot was of Wedgwood, and just had cress. But I knew we'd done the best thing ever. The mayor turned up with his big chain round his fat neck, and he hummed and he harred, and again, and again - and the bastard didn't even look twice at me and me Mam's bit! |
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We lost. We lost! We didn't even win! |
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I let his tyres down, and he had to drive all the way back to Marsden Rock with nee air in his soul. |
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Eehen, was that supposed to be a take-off on Joyce or on Proust? I can't tell. |
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Between cress ponchos and steak trousers, we might need a new category. But is it food: fashion or fashion: food? |
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Cress has no smell, other than that of cress, and so it's perfect poncho substance. I suspect. Also, spectacles made of tuna would work, probably, and boots made of dromedaries, one hump being all that's necessary. I suggest Eehen is neither Proust nor Joyce, but Grimble, and Kimble makes me nervous. |
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Salad Cream stockings, anyone? |
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...and a real Pork-pie hat. |
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You guys must be British. Here in Canada we only wear white bread ponchos. |
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