I am usually the one that looks on, ready to mock, but this time I have been made the unwitting victim.
It’s Asbo you see. A couple of years ago when just a pup really he discovered ‘Fang Shooey’. A study scarlet with rage, involving resizing the footwear belonging to She Of The Townhouse and others. The result left along ley lines connecting the back yard to the front door. Pieces of leather and plastic arranged for maximum canine harmony.
From this innocent beginning he has moved on and now regularly changes the covers on the sofa and the cushions so beloved. Changes them in the sense that you don’t recognise them afterwards, generally because the insides are now on the outside, the whole is a different shade that may or may not bear resemblance to the original, and of course damper than before. He has collected underwear since he devoured a scathing article on Tracy Emin’s Turner prize winner (he ignores her years of struggle of course) and has even been known to take the curtains down. Everything collected, along with the barely recognisable remains of the post, are day to day thrown all over The Townhouse floor.
Dropping in as I do from time to time, this has caused me no end of wry amusement.
Until today when the little git has sabotaged the sale of my old car.
A farmer, attracted by a turbo diesel bargain, to cross the Menaii Strait and journey on to the smiling man. The man that rubs his hands and promises his children new toys every time I go to the garage.
“Leave it on the forecourt Mike” why he calls me Mike I have no idea but I long ago gave up correcting him. “We’ll flog it for you”
For the first time in my ownership, the green gleam has been restored to the outside. The new look has been buffed on the inside. But you know what put off this weeks son of the soil?
Apparently it smells rather strongly of dog.
