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.