The New Apron

“Oi,” says Enid. “You finished me bloody apron yet? Or wot?”

“I’m working on it. Have you been…?”

“I may ’ave ’ad a wee dram,” says Enid. “Got bugger all else to do while you faff around wiv me unee-form for another bloody week.”

“And may I ask just what’s in the bottle?”

“Some of the gentlemen’s French crap wot I found in the pantry,” says Enid. “Kind of a perteef, I think. Dunno. Label’s foreign. Any port in a storm, matey. Hey, ho! Nonny nonny! Marcy moosher.”

“Enid, this is olive oil.”

“Oi,” giggles Enid. “No wonder it don’t ’alf make the gin taste funny.”