Episode 5 - The Gran Escape.

If Cosmo Farfetch was chaos incarnate, then his grandmother was the original blueprint, laminated, bedazzled, and set loose without instructions. Nanna Poppinz was ninety-three years old and deeply offended by it.

She lived at Golden Horizons Aged Care, a place that smelt faintly of disinfectant, boiled vegetables, and crushed dreams. Its brochure promised dignity, safety, and structure. Nanna had taken one look at that sentence and declared war.

At ninety-three, she had survived wars, husbands, disco, the invention of the microwave, and the slow cultural death of the martini. She was not about to be defeated by laminated schedules and an activities coordinator named Cheryl who confiscated hip flasks “for everyone’s own good.”

Nanna believed rules were a suggestion made by people without imagination. Now where have I heard that before? Ah! Cosmo! It all tracks back.

The final straw came on a Tuesday — it was always a Tuesday — when Matron Conniving-Bitch cancelled Whiskey Bingo. Not just postponed. She cancelled it completely.

Matron Conniving-Bitch, otherwise known as Hilda, was new to Golden Horizons. She wore sensible shoes, carried a clipboard like a weapon, and spoke exclusively in passive-aggressive bullet points.

“Cancelled?” Nanna whispered, fingers tightening around her cup of tea. “She can’t cancel tradition.”

“Matron can if it leads to nudity,” Cheryl said, exhausted. “Shaved orderlies and phallic symbols magically appearing all over the recreation room…and once on a nurse’s forehead.”

“In my defense, he was a dick head. Try getting an enema from him. I’d rather the constipation.”

“Edna! If that were the only incident…but there has been a growing list of others,” Cheryl sighed, looking much older than she was. “We felt bingo was too over stimulating on the residents and far more a hindrance for staff.”

By dinner, Nanna had already decided: she was leaving. By the time she got, the no sugar, no caffeine, no fun, Tiramisu, she had phoned Cosmo.

Cosmo answered on the third ring, voice thick with theatrical despair, “Hello! Sweet Seduction Incorporated! How may I direct your call?”

“Oh, leave off, Sonny-boy! I got no time for that horse shit.”

“Nanna! Sweetheart! If this is about the scarf I borrowed in 2009, I said I’d return it. I just can’t remember where I put it.”

Cosmo had been keeping a vigil over Carrie Fisher who was home of a weekend visit while Andromeda Fusion was at a stargazing convention.

So far Carrie was sedate, lying by the windowsill, gazing up at the sky, Zen-like. Yet, there were certain moments, like at exactly a quarter passed six and thirty seconds, when Carrie turned into the Tassie Devil. All whirling devilment and frightening ferocity.

She would cause so much chaos in exactly ten whole minutes before slumping on the ground in a lump, snoring. Sometimes whimper but usually snoring once more content.

“Cosmo,” Nanna said. Drawing Cosmo from his vigil. “They’ve cancelled Whiskey Bingo.”

“Those monsters,” Cosmo whispered, as he topped up his martini. “What beasts!”

“I want out.”

Cosmo sat upright. He had planned many things in his life — careers, reinventions, exits from awkward parties — but a nursing home jailbreak hadn’t occurred to him until now.

And yet. Something ancient stirred in his bones.

A memory of Nanna playing dress-ups with Cosmo. He would wear her regrettable wedding dress, have his makeup looking like a tramp and his hair blown out like a confused debutante in a gale. Cosmo would come out looking like Miss Havisham’s apprentice. Waiting for a groom who would never come. No judgement. Just outrageous fun.

Cosmo sighed, sculled his martini, declaring that he was on his way. They had an escape to plan.

Matron was keeping a lazy eye on Nanna Poppinz. She had single her out as a troublemaker and a problem for her new regime. Where Nanna went, Matron’s sensible shoes could be heard sucking up the floor as she followed. Never far away.

Nanna Poppinz had known that could only lead to one outcome. The Sedation Program. They used this program for residents with dementia or Alzheimer’s to keep them from wandering. Once they stuck you on that, it seemed to be all downhill from there into a picturesque plot at Harlequin Muse Cemetery.

Nanna Poppinz would have to shake her loose to get out of this place. Enter Cosmo. He arrived dressed as a wellness consultant — linen pants, a scarf that suggested European trauma, and sunglasses large enough to deflect accountability.

“Sweetheart! I’m here to discuss holistic enrichment,” he announced.

Matron Conniving-Bitch squinted, “You weren’t on the schedule.”

Cosmo smiled serenely, “Neither was disco but look how big that got.”

Before she could respond, he produced a thermos, “This is a herbal infusion,” he said. “It encourages flexibility, emotional openness and a sense of calm.” She hesitated, “Oh! Well! Just like Kylie Minogue, if you got to be certain, how about you test the product yourself?”

Ten minutes later, Matron Conniving-Bitch was lying on the activities room floor, participating in what she would later insist was a “team-building exercise” involving naked Twister and two confused residents named Barry and Moe.

Cosmo didn’t wait. He found Nanna already prepared. She sat on her mobility scooter like a general awaiting extraction, sunglasses on, a sequined gown pooling around her, a feather boa coiled around her neck like a battle flag.

“Gee sonny-boy! I thought I was gonna see out my last fuckin years on this thing. You took long enough.”

Cosmo adjusted the boa, “You packed light.”

“Oh! horse shit! I have no time for inquisition!” She patted a handbag the size of a small child. “This is all I need. I’ve got pills, cash, some clean underwear and a knife I stole in 1987.”

They blasted out of Golden Horizons at a speed the scooter manufacturer had explicitly warned against.

Freedom tasted like petrol fumes and rebellion. Nanna demanded food immediately. They hit a drive thru. Nanna leaned out, yelling orders like a dockworker, “Where’s me fuckin Zinger Box! It can’t take ya that long, sonny-boy! I can see you there standing around just fiddling with yourself. And don’t skimp on the extra salt for my fries.”

The scooter accidently lurched forward when Nanna farted unexpectedly, clipped the menu board, and sent it crashing down like a fallen idol.

“Oh! Horse shit!” Nanna cackled, taking her order. “Must be that enema. Time to exit this popsicle stand."

Cosmo screamed. The scooter screamed louder. They narrowly missed a man on a Vespa. He did not survive emotionally.

Their next stop was a community bingo hall, because Nanna believed in closure. She burst in mid-game, slapped the bingo caller aside and took the mic, and accused him of corruption.

“These balls are fuckin rigged,” she shouted, sweeping half of them into her handbag. “How else did Gladys Goldberg win so much…no doubt on her hand and knees with that bald fucker over there. She wasn’t crowned Miss Dairy Queen 1956 for nothing.”

Security arrived too late. The scooter fishtailed out the door, Cosmo waving apologetically, Nanna flipping the bird with startling precision.

By nightfall, they ended up at a gay bar Nanna vaguely remembered from the 1970s, “Such horse shit! Fuck no! Sonny-boy, I don’t do house music…sounds like strangulated testicles.”

Cosmo gushed. There goes my Nanna. The silly old cow.

She took to the stage. The DJ panicked. Donna Summer came on by accident. Nanna sang Hot Stuff like she had invented desire. Now they were talkin.

For one shining, gravity-defying moment, she was disco incarnate — arms raised, sequins blazing, the room silent in awe.

Then gravity remembered her. A coked-up twink tried to catch her. Physics disagreed. Cosmo closed his eyes. Mother always said there would be days like this. When he opened them, Nanna was laughing on the floor, victorious.

Later, back at Cosmo’s apartment, Nanna passed out on the velvet couch, feather boa draped about her with a condom wrapper tangled in her hair, snoring like a woman at peace.

Cosmo stood there for a moment, martini untouched, watching the aftermath of a perfect disaster. Chaos, he realised, was hereditary. And glorious.

Nanna wrapped the Damask throw about herself, still snoring with the confidence of a woman who had escaped an institution twice in one lifetime and intended to do it again if provoked.

One slipper dangled from her foot. A half-finished martini sat on the side table, olives suspiciously missing.

Cosmo watched her fondly, stroking Carrie Fisher’s tiny back as the gerbil sunned herself inside the clutch bag, that was now her home. Some soft fabric for bedding, a small spinning top for amusement and a scattering of droppings here and there. One of Cosmo’s old eye patches was now a hammock connecting one side to the other.

“Family,” he sighed.

Carrie Fisher squeaked.

Therapy was starting to work. And a micro dose of a sedative.

Cosmo was halfway through a late breakfast martini — medicinal — when his door buzzed. He opened it but just a crack, “Mr Farfetch,” a voice said smoothly. “This is Agent Grady.”

Cosmo blinked. “Sweetheart! Am I supposed to know you? No wait! Did we meet at the Finger Up campaign to promote prostate cancer awareness?”

There was a pause.

“No! I am the man your gerbil maimed.”

“Oh! Sweetheart!” Cosmo said brightly, quickly welcoming him inside as if old friend. “You look…oh…stunning!”

Agent Grady stood in back lighting to die for, highlighting a sculped jawline, cheekbones that had been sharpened, eyes now smouldering with the accidental intensity of a man who had been rebuilt by very expensive surgeons with a very specific reference image. Thanks once more to Dr Bombay! The once mongrel now looked like Brad Pitt. Specifically Fight Club Brad Pitt. The dirtiest of the type.

“This is not a social call. I have orders to apprehend your gerbil,” Cosmo gasped. The man continued. “We believe Carrie Fisher can identify a recently apprehended former owner.”

“Oh! You don’t say! You’ve found Oliver! Does he speak about me with such…benevolence.”

“Well, we have yet to confirm if it is indeed, Oliver Wendle,” The man continued. “He…had a minor accident with a power socket…he has become mute. We think the gerbil can help.”

Carrie Fisher, meanwhile, had recognised the face instantly. Her pupils dilated. Her tiny body stiffened. And it was even a quarter passed six and thirty seconds.

Then came the sound — a high-pitched shriek usually associated with sirens, exorcisms, and deeply traumatised marsupials.

“No,” Cosmo said gently. “Sweetheart…”

Too late. Carrie Fisher entered Tasmanian Devil Mode. She spun in place, teeth bared, emitting a noise that rattled glassware and woke Nanna from a dead sleep. Cosmo quickly shut the clutch as the sides began to take a battering from the devil.

“The bloody cheek.” Nanna sat bolt upright out of her dream. “Ya dirty snowdropper!” She looked around a little dazed. This wasn’t the halfway house for the immoral girls with a welcome mat at their chastity belt.

For a time, Nanna Poppinz was house mother to wayward girls, which often brought her into contact with snowdroppers and questionable midnight callers, especially on washing day. Both groups of men loved freshly laundered women’s sundries. Sometimes on the girls and other times on themselves.

The woman had spent many a night using her broom to hunt them out. She ran a respectable house. Not some knock shop for desperate delinquents.

Cosmo clutched the handbag, “No! Nanna! This is my home…remember.”

“Oh…crap! I remember,” Nanna said darkly. ‘You in a hood in a wood…what was his name again?”

“Tommy!”

Agent Gray was having none of this domestic delivery. He needed to get the gerbil back to base. He tried to wrestle the clutch away from Cosmo.

Nanna launched a slipper. It connected with Grady’s cheekbone. Perfectly. A shame, really. Another visit to Dr Bombay on the horizon.

“Get the fuck away from my grandson,” Nanna snarled, rising from the couch with surprising menace. “And take your handsome nonsense with you.”

Grady’s jaw clenched, “The animal! I must have it!”

“She’s traumatised,” Cosmo snapped. “Her treatment is only half done.” He held the clutch close to his chest, “Sweetheart! You seem like a desperate virgin at the Meat Locker. I smell a rat.”

“Woops! Sonny-boy! That was just me!” Nanna Poppinz looked guilty. “The served cabbage yesterday…at the home.”

Cosmo wrinkled his nose, ignoring his Nanna, and her lingering fart, “I’ve seen enough 24.” He put on an intense yet compelling voice as if channeling Kiefer Sutherland. “There is always something else going on…what are you hiding? How can this little freak tell you anything?”

“There is a chip inside the gerbil. It has all his plans!”

“Oliver! Then you don’t have him?”

The man reached for his gun, and took aim, “I can blow his whole game apart with that chip.”

“But that could hurt Carrie Fisher.”

“One gerbil’s life is nothing compared to the mayhem its owner could cause.”

Carrie Fisher had gnawed a hole in the side of the clutch and hurled herself at him, violently.

Agent Grant fired wildly, missing the gerbil, and taking out Cosmo’s collection of mannequins on the shelf. They cascaded on top of him, vibrant wigs, glitter and foam heads.

Cosmo grabbed Carrie Fisher. Nanna Poppinz hobbled behind, waving her other slipper at the agent. They fled down the fire escape

Cosmo jumped on the back of the scooter where Nanna Poppinz took charge. She sideswiped a Tesla and laughed like a woman truly alive. They hid in a thrift store. Then a laundromat. Then a chapel that smelled like regret and incense.

Eventually, breathless and victorious, they collapsed on a park bench. Carrie Fisher trembled, exhausted, high on adrenaline and unresolved feelings. Cosmo held her close, “I know, sweetheart” he murmured. “He’s very handsome. It’s confusing both of us.”

Nanna patted his knee, “Sonny-boy! You’ve always had bad taste in men.”

Cosmo sighed.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

This was not over. Agent Grady still wanted her back.

Carrie Fisher, still trembling from her relapse, let out a warning squeak that vibrated through Cosmo’s bones.

Nanna Poppinz revved her mobility scooter, “Fuck this! We can’t stay here,” she said. “I know a sad bitch that owes me a favour or two.” Cosmo blinked. “This thing’s got three speeds and a death wish. We’re using all of them. Come what may.”

Cosmo leapt on behind her, clutching the handbag. Carrie Fisher poked her head out, eyes wild, teeth flashing.

They shot forward.

Nanna did not take them off the road so much as off the map. She was a law of physic unto herself with a keen sense of direction.

The scooter rattled along a narrow lane bordered by cypress trees that leaned inward like conspirators. The air grew cooler, sharper, threaded with incense and eucalyptus. Somewhere ahead, a bell tolled — not urgently, not mournfully — but with the confidence of a place that expected to be heard.

Cosmo felt it then. The shift. This was not hiding. This was sanctuary.

At the end of the drive stood a convent that had long ago stopped apologising for itself. Stone walls softened by ivy. Stained glass dulled by dust and age. A statue of Mary out front whose expression suggested she’d seen worse and would see more.

Cosmo swallowed, “Nanna,” he said carefully, “Good god! Tell me we’re not Catholics?”

Nanna smiled, “My saggy-arse sister is.”

Mother Superior Immaculata — formerly Gloria, troublemaker, smoker — opened the door before they knocked. She wore her habit incorrectly. On purpose. Sleeves rolled. Sensible boots. A rosary looped around her wrist like a weapon.

She took one look at Nanna and sighed, “What is it now, ya silly old cow.”

Nanna kissed her cheek, “Don’t you start fuckin nagging me, Mother Mary!”

“Edna! You fowl mouth jezebel!” She kissed her other cheek, “You’re in the presence of God. Watch your tongue or out you go.” Mother Mary’s eyes flicked to Carrie Fisher, trembling but alert in Cosmo’s arms. “What is this poor unfortunate creature?”

“Nah. Gloria! That’s just my grandson. You remember Cosmo?”

The mother superior just huffed, with annoyance, “I was talking of the rodent.” She turned her faze on Cosmo who wilted by that stare. “God bless you, my son. Oh my!” She began to laugh, “Look at the state of you. The sisters will find you most amusing. It can get quite dull around these parts.”

Well, poor old Cosmo had been through an ordeal getting here. No wonder he looked like a bus, two scooters and a unicycle had passed over him.

His camp was in retrograde; his flamboyance was skirting around his ankles, and his hair was so windblown that he looked like a Hedgehog on crack. He stood in rumpled satin pajamas; make-up smeared on his face from overzealous perspiration and his complexion so clogged with grime that it needed an intervention.

Cosmo didn’t like her tone. It was on the verge of laughing at him and not with him. He tried to stop her but soon she was calling in the sisters from here and there. Not many but each one had an opinion.

Sister Agnes nudged the Mother Superior, who glared icily at the woman. No one ever had the audacity to nudge a mother superior, but sister Anges did. What would you expect growing up on a farm.

“Mother Mary, is this the one?” she whispered, not quietly. “The one you were praying for.”

Cosmo straightened in his chair trying to look as refined and debonair as possible.

“The devil himself,” The mother superior sighing. “A curse to his mother’s heart and a enabler of his grandmother’s peculiarities.”

“We don’t get many like you,” said Sister Agnes, pulling up a chair without asking. “Mostly runaways. Sometimes poets. Once a magician. But never… whatever this is.”

She gestured vaguely at his attire, his cheekbones, the faint scent of martini and panic.

Cosmo laughed weakly, “I’m a person.”

“Yes,” Sister Margaret said thoughtfully, circling him like a da Vinci sculpture. “But also, a phenomenon. I have never seen one up close…a homosexual.”

Another nun appeared — Sister Beatrice, round-faced, eyes sharp as pins, “Is he fragile? In the spiritual?”

“He has lapsed many times,” Mother Superior replied. “He was always fiddling…poking…touching himself immorally…could never leave what God gave him alone. Consumed with pleasures of the flesh.”

Beatrice gasped, as if mortified, marking the sign of the cross in the air before him, “Such a lost lamb.” She reached out and adjusted the collar of his pajamas with surprising tenderness. “There is always a road back to yourself…just not so intimately.”

They brought him things. A jumper — hand-knitted, aggressively warm. Biscuits. Then different biscuits to strengthen. A chair with better lumbar support.

“Were you always this pretty,” Sister Margaret asked, “or did something happen to you? Nip and tuck.”

Cosmo stared, “I was on television. I was expected to be beautiful.”

“Ah,” said Anges. “Vanity is where Satan stirs his pot of self-hatred.”

They nodded gravely.

Later, as Carrie Fisher settled and the house exhaled, Cosmo found himself installed on a couch beneath a painting of a saint who looked deeply unimpressed.

Sister Agnes sat opposite him, knitting, “So,” she said. “Do you believe?”

Cosmo considered, “Only that Cher will have another farewell tour.”

“While I am certain Cher will do such…and would be consider a source of divinity…for some boys like yourself, I was referring to God.”

Cosmo shook his head. The sister lent forward, caressing his arm, “Give it some time…he is always welcoming those who have strayed…you just have to call his name.”

Like Timothee Chalamet?

That night, as he lay in the narrow bed, Carrie Fisher breathing softly nearby, Cosmo stared at the ceiling and listened to the sounds of the convent — murmured prayers, laughter, a kettle boiling at an unreasonable hour.

He felt, quite suddenly, like something rare had wandered into the wrong enclosure and been gently, firmly claimed. Not owned. Protected. That something was him.

And Cosmo Farfetch — actor, disaster, curiosity — let himself be held in place for once, studied and fed and quietly adored, like a creature that had finally wandered somewhere it was allowed to exist.

The convent was alive. Once more. Not reverent — alive. Someone laughed down the corridor. A radio played too loudly in the kitchen. A bell rang, not to summon prayer, but to announce that someone had burned the bread again. The walls were cluttered with icons and protest posters, saints’ side by side with handwritten slogans:

Porridge appeared. Bread was placed. Cosmo asked for a martini but got a cup of tea pressed into his hands.

Yet for the first time in a long while, Cosmo accepted the offerings. He didn’t create a scene. Was not on the verge of a tantrum. He drank the tea in silence. Serene. Almost spiritual like some force had taken away his fears and foibles.

Nanna and her sister sat at the long table, tea cooling between them, “So, you rancid old cow,” The Mother Superior said. “What trouble have you brought to my door this time?”

“Oh! What horse shit! You be careful, Gloria,” Nanna said sweetly. “Or I’ll start telling stories before you found God… when you prayed to a different deity called Casa Noble. Tequila slammers were your vespers back then. There should be enough worms inside you to open a bait and tackle shop.”

“I strayed from the path,” her sister grumbled. “But I soon found my way back.”

“Oh! That’s horse shit! It was this or prison…Daddy had you signed up before your solemn vows were even uttered.” Nanna Poppinz smirked. “Now that’s sorted! We’ve got the Government fuzz on our arses,” she said. “I think they want to dissect the rodent. We call her Carrie Fisher.”

Mother Mary grimaced, “Oh dear. All God’s creatures are sacred. You’ll stay,” The mother superior added, nodding toward Carrie Fisher. “As long as you need.”

“And me?” Cosmo asked quietly.

Mother Mary met his eyes, “This place exists,” she said, “for those the world decides to chase away instead of understanding. Of course! I may find your lifestyle seedy and wanting of decorum, but you will always be welcome here.”

Outside, the light faded. Inside, candles were lit. And for a brief, fragile span of time. Cosmo felt what sanctuary truly meant. Not safety forever. Just safety for now.

Mother Mary Immaculata stood at the front steps as dusk gathered, hands folded calmly, eyes sharp with purpose, “We will not hurt anyone.” The sisters murmured assent. “But,” she continued, “we will not be moved. Come sister, we have much to do.”

Cosmo watched from behind the stained-glass doors, Carrie Fisher nestled against his chest, tiny body warm and mercifully still. The gerbil’s breathing had evened out over the last couple of days — fewer tremors, no spinning, no screams at reflections. Sanctuary, it turned out, worked.

Nanna Poppinz sat beside him, knitting something aggressively pink. A shawl. “Sonny-boy! They don’t know who they’re fuckin with,” she said fondly. “Gloria, knows how to defend herself…we grew up with four brothers, and she knew how to take them down during a rousing game of snap.”

They all knew trouble was brewing like a single ladies’ circle at a banquet tossing tournament. Dark cars pulled up ejecting cloned agents all dripping with a calming menace in expensive Tom Ford suits.

The first agent slipped on the front path. Not dramatically — just enough to offend his dignity. Sister Agnes peered down from a window, “Soap,” she noted. “Homemade environmentally friendly. We’re having a two for one special. All for a good cause." Orphaned meerkats from Mozambique.”

The second agent opened a side door and triggered a rain of rosaries tied together with fishing line. They tangled beautifully, clattering like bones.

“God has other plans for you, my son,” Sister Margaret called cheerfully.

A third agent attempted the rear entrance and was met with a swinging censor filled not with incense, but flour. White. Blinding. Biblical.

Cosmo clapped a hand over his mouth to suppress laughter, “Oh! So sacrilegious. I must remember this for my Sister Act auction.”

Another agent made the mistake of underestimating knitting. This was common. He stood just outside the convent wall, radio crackling softly, posture alert but bored — the stance of a man convinced danger would announce itself loudly. He did not notice movement until it was already too late. Nanna’s slippers were full of grace.

Nanna’s knitted shawl snapped taut around his body suggesting this was not her first time restraining a man.

He yelped as his feet went out from under him. The young man hit the ground with a soft, indignant thud.

By the time the sisters arrived — hands on hips, expressions ranging from impressed to deeply unsurprised — the agent lay trussed neatly against the convent wall like an offering left out for inspection.

Sister Margaret squinted, “Is that Merino?”

“Of course!” Nanna replied. “Strong and forgiving just like an old woman like me.”

Agent Grant made it as far as the refectory. His face covered with band-aids. There, he encountered Sister Beatrice, age seventy-eight, who smiled warmly and offered him a cup of tea.

Chamomile.

With honey.

And those eyes. They disarmed him.

There was just enough sedative to ensure a long, dreamless nap. Grant collapsed gently into a chair, unconscious but unharmed. Mother Superior sighed.

“Well,” Beatrice said. “We can’t leave him here. I have loaves to bake.”

Sister Agnes brightened, “My nephew works docks.”

The logistics were flawless. They always were.

By dawn, Agent Grant and his men were bundled respectfully — labelled HUMANS, HANDLE WITH CARE — and loaded aboard a cargo ship bound for South America. Somewhere distant. Somewhere warm. Somewhere with paperwork that took months.

Cosmo returned home quietly with Carrie Fisher. The apartment smelled the same — velvet, citrus cleaner, old longing. Carrie Fisher resumed her place on the windowsill, waiting for Andromeda to pick her up, less haunted. Treatment would continue. Slowly. Kindly.

And Nanna Poppinz packed her one bag, “Well! Sonny-boy! I’m going back.”

Cosmo stared, “But you made a grand escape.”

Nanna smiled, “I did,” she said. “And it was fuckin glorious.” Her twinkling eyes casting over him, “But I miss Monday Melodies with the old tarts, Scrabble with Mavis and weekly porn club with Gretel. I even miss Matron Conniving-Bitch, the miserable cow. I loved hiding her hormone patches…. she’s pretty much fucked without them.”

Cosmo swallowed, “You’re sure?”

Nanna kissed his cheek, “Freedom, Sonny-boy,” she said, “means choosing where you stay and when you go back.”

And somewhere across the ocean, Agent Grant woke up very confused, clutching a rosary and reconsidering his career choices.

Stay tuned for the next campy escapades of Cosmo Farfetch. He’s always only one martini away from another bad decision.

#CosmoFarfetch #ALifeLessFabulous #QueerComedy #SatiricalSoapOpera #GayCampFiction #QueerStories #FunReads #FictionOnTheNet #LGBT #Fiction #QuickReads

Daz James

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