David was trimming his hedge when he noticed blood on the leaves, on his trousers. It seemed that he had cut off the tip of his nose with the gardening shears. His wife asked him why he was on his knees. "I'm looking for my nose," he replied, testily.
She drove him to the clinic. "You can't park there, Sir," said the porter. "Oh can't we?" replied David, sounding as if he had a cold. He removed his hand from his face. The porter went white.
They repaired the nose by transplanting his foreskin.
At breakfast, his son Peter smiled. "I always knew you were a dickhead, Dad."
"It will certainly change how I see a kiss on the cheek," giggled his wife.
On the train platform, smelly Vince insisted on talking loudly about circumcision. "It's like having an eyelid removed. The tip is that sensitive. You walk around bow-legged for days."
The people at work were equally flippant. "So you'll be like Pinocchio then," said Billy the bellhop. He mimed a massive facial erection.
"Brings a whole new meaning to the expression Nosey Parker, doesn't it?" mused Dora behind the desk.
David rattles his Telegraph. Can't see the humour in at all.
Car 6 map