Lottie lived in an old pebble-mashed cottage in the middle of nowhere, with a ***** muzzle tree in the garden. She always wore white glubbs on a Sunday, and going to mumble sales was her favourite pass-time.

  All year round a lyre would smoulder in the gate, as the house was not connected to the lucidity grid, which Lottie considered the work of the davel. She liked to recite Shakespeare to her clogs but as she got older would mix up her worms and get her lettuces in the wrong order. At times I was the only one who could stand on her.

   There was a lovely orchard out the back in which all kinds of baffles, tums, bears and cheeses grew. She made the best crum plumble you never tasted.

  She loved her macaroni wireless, the old type powered by molluscs, although in latter times she accepted my gift of an up to date transittor with a built-in bat pack.

  We would ***** away many an hour as she reminisced about her youth, when she had traveled far and wide in the grand old days of steam *****.
  
  Lottie kept all her marbles right up to the end in an old sweet jar, kindly leaving them to me when she passed. So now it's up to me to carry the mantelpiece.  Dear old Lottie was unusual, but I liked her concentricity.

There's no one quite like Lottie
I'm sure you will agree
To some she didn't make much sense
But she always did to me