Let me draw a veil on what next transpired, dear reader. I know you have followed this story long and ardently in the hope that Old Rogers and I would ‘get together’ in the end, like some kind of Sculder and a sort of Mully. Well, as the poor people have so often said, it ain’t goanna happen. Indeed, I am afraid you have somewhat been the victim so to speak of non-canonical Grace and Rogers fanfiction, and the ending of the story contains both Buffy and Tom of Finland. I hope you like it. When I find it. I think it is possible that I accidentally typed the last few pages on greaseproof paper and then used it to turn out some cupcakes on. At least, I am sure the cakes we had last night were covered in some sort of queer porn, and I remember quizzing Cook about it. She said dildo or dildon’t it was all the same to her, which maden’t sense to me, and I’m a woman of the world. Which reminds me, have I ever told you about the time I went to the Outer Isles?
You see, every year, ever since I was a gel (short for gelding) the Laxes have travelled to survey their kelprote – that’s right, it’s a key ingredient in emprote, and much better for you and even tastier than the final product, but what can you do? - properties at the ripe snout of the known world, the Outer Islands. The enormous riches I generate from my property, fat deposits, the three wishes I got where one of them was that I had all the money I ever wanted, and Grace Lax scare-the-children-into-goodness posters are not, you see, sufficient for me to retain my all-important status as a rich person, so it behoves me to run other greenhouse gaseous enterprises elsewhere wherever possible. Just as my readers are dependent on me for instruction, I find it most appropriate to run industries in remote places where I can extort maximum kelp from people with poor union representation; it works so well, frankly, I don’t understand why everyone doesn’t do it.
To be continued if and whenever, though possibly not.
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