visigoths have paid us a nocturnal visit, laid waste our gardener, boggy’s prizewinning herbaceous border and stolen the mixed nuts from the bird table.
all is devastation. little remains but a pile of smouldering ash and gaunt, half starved gaulish women clad in rags, lamenting their loss and wailing to their gods. they are transalpine gaulish women and can therefore only be consoled with amulets and barley wine, neither of which i have in sufficient quantity. to make matters worse, their druid has completely lost his mind. thank god there’s at least one sane person around here.
the council says it’s sending a man round; round what they weren’t prepared to divulge.
why does all this stuff happen to me?
- submit pics of things on top of things.
- do it today. you know it makes sense.
- the best submission in the opinion of my crack squad of elite judges (the embattled dame betty and boggy the gardener) and myself will win dippy, the diplodocus skeleton, which i keep in the central hall of the natural history museum, london. if your house is too small to accommodate dippy, you will receive an autographed left shoe from the heather mills collection. if your house is too small to accommodate heather mills' left shoe, move.
- can't say fairer than that, now can i?
another in my acclaimed things on top of things photo essay series, emailed to me by boggy, who’s on his annual holiday in gaza.
it’s called palestinians on top of a bus, apparently.
stick with him. if it helps i find him a lot more accessible after one of boggy’s ketamine and drambuie frappés.
it seems that i face danger at every turn.
if it isn’t the splinters on the dining room table, which threaten to pierce some vital organ if i make a brusque movement as i lean across to pick up the potatoes or vegetables, or the possibility of attack and kidnap by sabre-wielding privateers as i walk my dalmatian, pied pelham, down to his favourite defecating spot at harwich docks, its the sense of deep foreboding that assails me wherever i go near the village green. the prospect of being struck a fatal blow by some random mallard making its final approach to a watery landing in the pond, or accidentally swallowing and choking to death on a falling sycamore seed if i happen to be gazing skyward, open-mouthed, at a passing rook, is all too real.
i’ve considered a variety of options for improving my chances of survival, including living out the rest of my days in the cellar, with no contact with the outside world apart from boggy the gardener’s daily ready to eat meal deliveries, but then i remember the local wildlife park’s circular last month about an escaped gang of delinquent wallabies.
suppose they’re hiding down there. then what?
he likes to sail to spithead.
some say he’s a diamond bloke,
but i say he’s a charlatan.