Keeping our man working.



Now this is the way we like to see our men, on their hands and knees cutting the grass for our breakfast the following morning.  We think we have trained him very well and we also think that it is all for his own good. By having to cycle over onto the common each morning to do the business, we are keeping him fit and healthy. Is he thankful? Not a bit of it, particularly if it has been raining. He will come in, dripping all over the place and waffle on about ending up being an obedient servant to a bunch of snipey tripe hounds, if you please.


Ok so he looks a bit of a scruff bag and gets lot of funny looks, and apparently last week a dog came up and cocked his leg up on him.  That’s a dog for you, but of course the bitches don’t behave like that, much more refined, a little like us, actually.


Things can only get worse, for last week he qualified for his free travel pass so he will now throw that in our faces, you know the kind of thing. ‘Here I am, at the official age of retirement and I still have to go out on cold mornings and gather food for you lot, when I should be having a lay-in.’ He should be grateful that we condescend to live with him, considering his bad habits, his smelly socks, his lousy singing and funny five minutes, which can be quite frightening.


The other day, when he was listening to his jazz, he got up and did jig around the room, wriggling his hips, and punching the air when his favourite tenor sax play was doing his stuff on one of his CDs. We were all temped to shout, ‘ come a little closer and we will oblige and with something very heavy,’ when he suddenly intoned, in a far away voice, ‘Hit me, hit me, hit me’


We blame his parents, and his teacher, for that kind of madness is not inborn; he studied hard to get the way he is now. However, we have to bear with him, and though we try not to mock the afflicted, it is struggle when you see someone who has sunken to his level!


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