Tuesday 22 April 2008

Leaving

County Councils attract some strange people. And either the strangest stay, or the ones who stay get stranger, I'm not sure which. When I left, rather early for their taste, they gave me a certificate.

I look at my certificate sometimes. I keep it in the gents, where a chap hangs such things. With the barometer to tap, and the tortoiseshell-backed brushes and bound editions of Punch, and the hunting alphabet, and a bar of soap with dark fissures like glacial crevasses.

When I breathe my last, I may think, "I would I'd stayed longer, serving." But then again, I might not.

6 comments:

  1. Well they do say that no one ever breathes their last on their deathbed, uttering the immortal last words 'Ah, I wish I'd spent more time at work...'

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  2. Quite right too. Any guesses as to what your last words might be, Laura? (I suspect mine might be, 'Could you put a bit more gin in this, please')

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  3. And, if you were a city council worker, perhaps answer me this:

    Is four inches too much?

    x

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  4. Oh GIM, every answer I think of sounds smuttier than the last. Can I get away with, 'No'?

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  5. I suppose I ought to admit that I made up the tortoise-shell brushes and the Punches, and the hunting Alphabet. They belonged to a family WC of my childhood, in a much grander house than I'll ever own. The certificate and the soap were true though. Artistic licence.

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  6. In answer to your question BT, my last words will probably be.

    'Don't forget to take my library books back'

    as I imagine the fine for not returning them owing to a mere detail such as one's demise must be enormous...

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