Why is there a 70 year old man (who looks Irish, for some reason), dragging a cart containing an old fridge and a door down the middle of my street at this time of night? Maybe he is going to build a special playground for the squirrels. In fact, maybe he is the Squirrel Master, and it is he who gets them to run down my road in convoy, and spring across my front wall in formation. Maybe he lives in a shelter made of leaves and newspapers, and calls the squirrels to him with his magical whistle, whereupon they drink pints of beer and smoke pipes.
Ooh.
7 comments:
Honestly. You need to leave the house more often. I know about such things.
Not too many nights ago I was sitting on what New Yorkers call my 'stoop' waiting for the Phantom Dog Shitter. It was eleven o'clock.
I had been there an hour.
Guy with dog walks by. He does not notice me. What with it being dark and that.
'Hey' I say in deepest, scariest voice.
'Alreet' he says cheerfully, waves at me, and continues on his way.
That was not the desired effect.
I think you're in love with me, Stoat. What's your view of inter-species, er, 'relations'?
I'm all for it, as it goes.
Ahem. Never mind stoat-stalker. I HAVE LEFT A COMMENT.
I have a fragile ego at the minute.
Your comment is splendid, dear TD, as ever.
Dear Tired Dad
I have tried to restrain myself from commenting on NWM's blog, but I can't help myself this time as
I'm worried about you and the phantom dog shitter. His human companion may be alreet himself, but is obviously thoughtless. I once confronted similar character by asking where he lived, so that, as I had no dog myself and the cat was not amenable to taking orders, I could perform personally in his garden. He was never seen in our street again.
Had you thought of that option?
MonkeyMother.
I am now troubled. Who is more excellent? You or daughter?
This is becoming 'a bit odd'.
Tired Dad (I was once a Tired Mother of Monkeys, but then they grew up) - but life is odd, isn't it? And all the better for it, I say.
Of course, NWM is not my real daughter. My real darling little baby was stolen by the fairies when in her pram, and instead they left me with this highly intelligent, funny, monkeybaby who learned to use a computer with such distinction. I just wish she didn't smoke and drink at the same time - such a problem when trying to swing from branch to branch. I'm afraid the alcohol will ignite from the cheroot with disastrous results.
Incidentally, there is some poor, deluded woman, in Arizona probably, who is still using flashcards in an attempt to conduct a dialogue with chimpanzees. Should I let her know about computers?
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