The Idle Rich

What Ho Proles!

I’m taking a break from the memoirs today. My Man has had to dash up north to sort out some family problems and the blighter's taken the Bentley with him. I don’t like to ask too many questions for fear that he might tell me a few too many details. All I know is he also took the shotgun with him and whipped Mrs. Prigg’s best nylon hosiery from the washing line. If I wasn’t sure that there’s not a bad bone in My Man’s body, I’d say there’s crime afoot. As it is, I suspect it's another problem with his Uncle Walter whose gambling debts occasionally mean that he runs into trouble with some local 'gentlemen'. I sometimes think My Man has watched Get Carter a few too many times, which makes his passing resemblance to Michael Caine that ever bit more worrying.

Still, I think it’s better not to ask too much about that sort of thing, especially when the Gods of Relaxation are blessing me today. Having dictated 100 pages of the memoirs over the last couple of weeks, I find myself at something of a loose end without My Man to do all the typing. It means I have a day to recharge my batteries with a spot of ginger ale while I sit back and watch Saturday afternoon sport.

Toodle pip.