Free It Always Rains on Sundays

at least. Why should we all be beholden to that superannuated, stuck-up twerp, (just because he happens to live in a big house with a cattle-grid). So, okay, a few odd adjustments maybe – stacker-chairs cost little (after all the acoustics in the conservatory are second to none) – I’ll vouch for that. Fair enough, that Put-u-up bed would have to go for a start (temporary or not). What purpose telling the whole world about our sleeping arrangements. No doubt Cynthia could easily handle the refreshment side of things I’m sure. There again, thinking about it maybe not (sleeping dogs and all that) a bit unwise at this particular moment in time perhaps.
    ***
    Looking on the bright side however. I can report that this new assistant of mine, Thelma Clegg is pretty top-notch. She’s proving to be a bit of a godsend in fact – I’m hoping she’ll stay. Just by chance, I happened to come across her personal file up in Docket’s office (not that I’m one to pry of course) – call it curiosity. Hopefully I’ve better things to do with my time. Anyway, for what it’s worth, she is in fact still married apparently, but are now unfortunately living apart.
    Eric, say no more eh, he works on the railway in the capacity of a track-inspector by all accounts (a bit grandiose that I thought), in my day they always called it a wheel-tapper, but there you go.
    Maybe it’s me, somehow or other I got the distinct impression there’s little to salvage. These things happen I’m afraid, it’s very prevalent these days unfortunately. However, no children from that union were mentioned, that’s a blessing at least. It’s the age were living in, it’s just something you have to accept I suppose. It also mentions he’s a keen gardener – well, more than that he’s won a load of cups and what have you. Now I think, I recall Thelma mentioning it – it appears he’s one of these idiots who’s whole life seems to revolve around the cultivation of giant-sized cabbages and so-forth. Frankly I don’t blame her, the point’s lost on me also – people’s mouths are only so big after all.
    This is the trouble, hobbies are one thing – if you’re not careful it can soon become an obsession, before you know it, it can take over your whole life.
    Poetry’s different, it’s a gift to the whole nation is poetry.
    One good thing at least, it’s given me more time to work on my new poem I was planning on using for tonight’s Poetry Society meeting, e.g.:

    The man with the limp

    All heard his approach the man with one peg,
Three flights of cold stone he dragged his bad leg.

    Enigmatic title that I thought, nice couplet too – it gets you curious rightaway. Mind you if I’m truthful I think I might’ve painted myself into a bit of a corner somewhat (I’m glad now I’ve looked), crux of the matter being, finding something that sits more comfortably with the word mist – only you’d’ve thought there’s got to be a better word than ‘pissed.’ There again, on reflection, it might well prosper by omitting stanza eleven too – on second thoughts there’s no point making him into a drunken sot to boot (not on top of everything else). Let’s face it the poor sods more than enough on his plate already, dragging his club-foot around the place if you ask me.
    Meantime I’ve been phoning-up Councillor Kyte again about our missing wheelie-bin. That’s gone walkies yet again – is nothing sacrosanct? His wife slammed down the phone (‘Ees avin is dinner – he’ll call you back’). Liar – it won’t be that next time he’s stood out on the front steps begging me to vote for him will it.
    ***
    11:00pm. What next I cry – they’ve only rechristened the pub that’s all. Instead, now they’re calling it Tony’s Tavern, that’s