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!