One of my oldest and dearest friends is one of those office angel gals who can type faster than I think, and she never - EVER - commits the sin of typo.
Unfortunately, this is not a trait we share (in fact, despite being life-long friends, we're pretty much as chalk & cheese as you can get). When chatting online to people, or even when getting caught up in the flow of what I'm tapping out, I type in a sort of streamofconsciousness way. And inevitably, that leads to DFS.
DFS (Dyslexic Fingers Syndrome) and the resulting inadvertant Spoonerisms are something that my mate (let’s call her Ffynella the Fragrant) is quick to spot and slow to forgive, thus reminding me that she's a clever old boot who learned how to touch-type properly at the age of two, while I'm still operating on the 4 finger system decades later.
To drive her criticism of my all-too-frequent typoes home, next time I’m anywhere near the Valleys, she has invited me for a slap-up meal of caked bod with prushed cotatoes and spreamed crinach. She offered belon malls as a starter but I begged her to spare the poor belons’ manhood, so we’ll probably have harma pam instead.
There is no end to the mixed-up menus you could come up with, including:
Boast reef & Porkshire yudding
Shamb Lank with grinted mavy
Celly & Justard
Dotted spick ('old on, that one sounds funnier in the original!)
And to wash it down, how about a shottle of Biraz, some Phateuaneuf du Crape, or perhaps a sisky & whoda followed by some chink pampagne?
Moments of silliness are essential for my sanity. And, despite her outward appearance of dignity and decorum, Ffynella knows that better than most.