What Ho Proles!
My Man has hounded me this evening about posting something about something. I’ve told him I’m out on my feet, what with work intruding on my pleasures this week. However, to pacify the chap - he is prone to some terrible sulks - I’m going to say something about rum coves who demand that a chap scribble a few wise words when gone to the world. They are exactly the sort of fellows who take not account of the fact that I’ve written another 1000 words of Memoir, which, impressive though they be, are not fit for publication. Still, it has been work and I'm exhausted to the shiny tips of my overworked fingers.
So, in the immortal words of my Uncle Arthur, resident poet to Cheltenham Garden Association:
When you press a petal
You do not get perfume,
So why press a person
And hope to find a saint?
Or, adds the Honourable Jacob P. Murgatroid, should you hope to find wisdom!
Until wiser times when I am awake.
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