Come rain, come shine

Last Sunday, the monsoon took the day off and, when I opened my eyes, the sun had decided to cooperate and make the day as pleasant as possible for me (and anyone else desiring a respite from damp and mildewed teeth). I was collected at the gate as usual by one of Rover's better products being driven by Lucretia Borgia, that well-known smile on legs, accompanied by her mummy, Buddy's owner. We stopped at Asda or Tesco - I don't know the difference, but apparently the discount comes in handy.

On arrival at the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang's hideout I ran into Harvey and Dennis, who had stopped stripping the local flora for a quick cuppa. It didn't take long before Miss Holbeach 1998 turned up, grinning her grin - always a pleasure to see.

"Hello," says she.

"Hello," said I, never one to let a good idea slip by.

So it was me, Jade and Harvey cooking the dinner for the evening repast, cottage pie - we couldn't find any shepherds. It's all bollocks really - there are no cottages in cottage pie, there are no shepherds in shepherd's pie and the ratatouille is not worth mentioning.

Where was I? Yes, after we had the food gently simmering away and being tasted every eighteen seconds by Jade, we went out to sit in the sun. I'm tricky, I admit it. The facts are simple. I didn't do the cooking at all, all I did was a bit of chopping and presenting of advice where requested. Everything was done by Jade and Harvey - chef, chef's assistant and me, chopper and pot-washer.

Then we gave Buddy a brush down, fed him on carrots and polo mints, shoved the saddle on his back and off we went. He was well behaved this week - even got a trot out of him coming back.

The feed was excellent - even fussy Mark had some, and he never eats anything that isn't spelled like pizza. After that, we were sitting chatting as usual, when it suddenly became clear that it was time to change for my trip back to durance vile. The day had been so pleasant I hadn't even noticed it was passing. I even made friends with Portia, and she usually just wants to remove my legs in one bite.

That was Sunday. Next day was another tale. To start with, it was pissing down when I opened the curtains. Okay, all right, seeing as I am attempting to become a decent memher of society I suppose I need to rephrase that sentence. It was raining heavily when I opened the curtains. (Hasn't quite got the same meaning, has it?) So, I got myself dressed like a pox doctor's clerk and off I went in the van to the hospital to be attended to by a mad slasher, better known as the surgeon.

I presented myself at the surgical ward, was shown to my bed and a few minutes later a nurse arrived and said, "Somebody has made a mistake!"

"Probably me," saId I. "I've done it before."

"You've been given the times for afternoon surgery but you are down for morning surgery. It's all wrong!"

"Welcome to my world," said I.

"We will have to reschedule as soon as possible," said she.

"Oh well," said I, "that's another clean shirt ruined."

I was back in the van at fifteen minutes past eleven and back in the prison just after half-past - another mission aborted. So, all that will have to be done again - let's hope it's better weather next time.

I am hoping for another sunny day next weekend, when I fully intend to make Buddy obey me - with the help of two carrots and a full packet of polo mints. If only the powers that be could be so easily satisfied - they want an arm, a leg, thirty pints of blood, forty pieces of silver and a golden tick in an invisible box.

Still, could be worse - I could be deserted in a pub by David Cameron for half an hour.

The Voice In The Wilderness