Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Twas on a Wednesday afternoon the gasman came to call

'Cor blimey, George,' I said, 'we don't half meet some miserable old gits when we're walking.'
'Tell me about it,' he replied.
'I mean I can understand them not wanting a close encounter with you ...'
'Excuse me?'
'But I'm well-brought-up. I don't stick my nose in their crotches or shake mud all over them.'
(George has started sulking now.)
'And they're walking by the sea? How is it possible not to be happy when you're walking in the fresh air by the sea?'

George refused to answer as he was still sulking.

Actually I do him a disservice: Harvey was the one for sticking his nose in unwelcome places. That's one trait George doesn't have. Unlike his 'I wanna break free' habit.

The gasman came today. As soon as he'd gone George started moaning to go out. I knew why: he was hoping the gasman would have left the gate open. Which he had.

I opened the door for George and we both stepped out. George looked at me and I looked at George. I began to sprint down the path; he cut across the grass and was down the steps and out of the gate before me. 'You scheming ratbag!' I yelled.

He wouldn't come back until I promised him a treat. Stupid he's not.