My gardener, Kipper, hasn't been in to work for three days now. It's not unusual for him to have time off as and when while he waits for the ground to warm up but he has been so active lately with his tomatoes in the greenhouse that it seems strange that he has left them unattended. I might ring him later to check he is alright. The last time I saw him was when he left off and was riding down the drive on his bike with what looked a big bag of leaf clippings.
Despite several calls to various people in the know, I have yet to get definitive proof that the Silver Fox has returned. One source said there was no way he would ever come back round these parts as he upset a lot of people the last time, another said he had heard the Fox was living in Spain and another said he heard he was running a hand car-wash near Scunthorpe. I'm still not convinced but I'm going to wait until I am sure before I mention anything to the Bishop.
The one thing I do know however is that the premises that Pilly said the Silver Fox was going to turn into a casino and lap-dancing club has indeed had an application for change of use put on it.
There's no smoke without fire, especially if you owe the Fox money and he sets your car alight.
My dining situation is looking distinctly bleak. Mrs Burroughs is still ill apparently and I am getting sick of eating soup every evening. Raggy, my care in the community butler offered to cook for me the other night as he had apparently found a wonderful pheasant outside the Hall gates which had been run over by a car. He showed me this 'wonderful pheasant' and I was immediately struck that I was going to end up with 'entrail and gut casserole'. I declined his generous offer and told him to take it home and enjoy it himself to which he replied "Oh no Sir, I wouldn't eat that old crap".
My gamekeeper has taken a fortnight off for his annual holiday and left strict instructions that none of the beaters are to do any pigeon shooting until he returns. Personally I don't see what all the fuss is about when it comes to shooting pigeons. It always bored me senseless sitting still for hours on end in a makeshift hide, not showing your face "in case they see the white of your face and fly away"
If they were that clever they wouldn't fly in towards a plastic pigeon going round and round on a battery powered washing line.
Anyway, apparently its what the beaters look forward to - sitting behind some scrim-net all day, freezing cold while they can watch some pigeons two miles away on some land that they don't have access to. Mind you, I could maybe cook a pigeon for tea. Having said that, there's not a lot to a pigeon, it's mainly a couple of hard little bits of breast meat that taste like Pedigree chum.
I suppose you could quite easily live off the land if you had to. There used to be a woman in the village who was 'in touch with nature'. She used to grow all her own veg, ate the berries of the trees and hedges, didn't eat meat, only wore natural fibre clothes, never washed her hair as apparently the grease and shyte helped it to wash itself... and only bathed in cold water when she had to.
Hell, I bet she stank.
She had arm-pit hair like an old coypu's arse.
No, you can stick your manky pigeons and hedge-monkey scavenging, until I can find another cook I shall dine out with an old military friend.
Colonel Sanders, here I come.
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