There is nothing hotter than a Scottish accent. And I have the PTSD to show it.
A few years ago I was doing check out in England. And by “experimentation,” I penurious stressful to find and couple a lesser nobility. Prince William was incontestably too far out of my reach, and who wants to dirty word their children with manly repetition baldness anyway—so I’d resigned myself to ensnaring at the very least an faint aristocrat from the As a gift of Windsor or comparable. I would even have settled for a colonial Viceroy, but superficially regal power lately ain’t what it hand-me-down to be, and the closest I might have stood to latching on to a British Aristocrat in the East would have looked suspiciously like me “servicing” a peevish old fossil of an English cricket referee who didn’t effectuate the Sepoy Riots had eat one's heart out since ended, some prematurely during their midgame crumpet break.
As a substitute for of heading to up to date London, where I convinced myself I was more suitable to pick up a bore star done up to look like Princess Margaret (only to find out later that it in point of fact was Princess Margaret) than a hot, adolescent, if teensy-weensy-known, regal, I headed to Oxford.
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