I am a charming sight now, in monocle, camoflaged cap, baggy wooly jumper, workmans boots, and no trousers.
To polish matters off, Mr Pie has just used his litter tray, leaving a smell that I could bottle and sell to middle eastern despots, to torture their subjects with. That cats backside breaches the Geneva convention.
|I shall hang this from his tail.|
In my last missive I promised the joys of sharpened swans.
This came about as follows: Last weekend, Ruth and I were kindly invited to go to a FANTASTIC local restaurant in Beaumaris, for an old friends 40th birthday. The food was awesome, delicious and beautifully presented <not a chip -or French fry, to my American readers- in sight > and the wine and conversation flowed well, especially when we got a complimentary bottle, after poor Ruth took a tumble on the wonky floor. Then my mind took a turn for the odd, when one friend mentioned something to do with food. My mind cross linked the food with combat, for some reason, and my mouth said "wouldn't raw chickens make good boxing gloves?" to no one in particular. There were raised eyebrows, but my friends are used to me going off on a tangent. The topic of conversation briefly turned to what animals would make the best hand held fighting implements. A live swan was generally agreed to be good, on account of superior reach to a goose, and more aggression than a duck < especially as you would have your hand up its derrière, which would upset most creatures> . I then said "Especially if you sharpened it". The reply came back "You means its beak?" After a moments thought I replied "No, its entire head"
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you a wonder of modern science : The mark one combat swan <Black edition>
|Swifter than a murder duck, stealthier than agony coot.|