I decided to take my work underground to stop it falling into the wrong hands. I can't tell a wrong hand from a hole in the ground though. So I buried everything in a hole. In the ground. I'll need a hand to dig it up again though. A left hand. (Just so there's no ambiguity about right hands / wrong hands) Left hands are the best anyway. I'm left handed solely on the strength of left hands being superior to the right. It doesn't mean anything sinister.
Yes, I know it really does mean sinister, but only if you are being Mr Pedantic pants. And I'm not.
By the leeeeft, (Always by the left) quick, March! Takes me back. The King's shilling. Square bashing, Yomping 45 miles to Goose green, Polishing the Brigadier's swagger stick every morning, shiny, shiny brass buttons, Nothing to eat except Bully beef and ship's biscuits, teach Jerry to mix it with an Englishman when his dander's up and the red mist rises over Primrose Hill. It'll all be over by Christmas boys, then it's Bluebirds over my white Vauxhall Nova, 5 Months Tax and MOT. *sighs* I guess we all died a little in that damned War!
So where's this going, I don't hear you ask? I don't fucking know! You take the high road, and I'll take the left hand path, and I'll be wherever I'll fucking be before you! And if I'm not there when you get there, I've got bored waiting and fucked off home. Nothing personal.