Dear Dreary.
My wife often smells of fish when she comes home at night. But she's a lovely lass and she's always eager to please. Only last night she rinsed my cockles under the tap in the
kitchen before rubbing my hard muscles with her gentle hands.
Our Tracy caught crabs last weekend, which certainly gave people a talking point in the village.
My wife's battered ring has been popular with the lads of the rugby union 11 for years now but time has begun to take it's toll.
Any of your readers want to buy a chippy?
Cap'n. Cod.
Fleetwood.

Good luck with that Cap'n.
Funny you mentioning Fleetwood. I was up there recently for the funeral of a distant cousin. Used to visit on day trips during holidays in Blackpool, going up there on the old trams. Plenty of fresh air but not much fun, I remember.
My cousins used to sell their botties to perverts under the pier. It was sordid and nasty, much like the place is now. I would sit on the beach and stare at the beauty of the Cumbrian fells across the bay, listening to the childrens' giggles and the paedos' groans going on around me.
Even then I tried to give them advice on safe sex , but a salty trawlerman tried to give me his fisherman's friend and I ran off to mummy.
One thing the place does have of course is a reputation for good fish and chips, and your missus seems to be able to land a catch or two, so why not add to the nation's black economy by starting up your own kind of fish farm in the spare bedroom above the chippy.
Tell her to get her fishnets on and put a sign in the window advertising her services. It would have to be easy for the locals to understand,something like
''Fleetwood Fish Special. £20.

Crunchy Ocean Pie £25. Fish Fingers £5. Ask for Stacey.'' Perhaps you could invite me up for old times sake. D.