Tuesday, 22 April 2008


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.


  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...'

  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')

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

    Is four inches too much?


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

  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.

  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...