My fellow country folk, these are, I know, desperate times.  But comprehend how one must first reach bottom before  careful negotiation up through wild bushlands; the crash-landing among asymmetric humps.  Such is the philosophy – from my camel instructor during harsh years with the Arabian infantry.

It is true, I have been a miserable bugger, but things will surely lighten up, and soon. Today’s contribution, primed for literary development, d1 xx .  [Tidy as I go :)]


A Bag For Life

Down at the depot Matty and Brutus stood upon a trailer.  The trailer attached to a tractor.  And on this trailer a dozen enormous tubs were piled, filled to the brim with agricultural grain.

‘I don’t get it,’ said Matty, ‘yesterday we emptied the silo of all feed, placed feed in these tubs.  And now, today, now Chief Crag has requested we pile the grain into 5000 bags for life, later pour it all back into the silo – again.’

‘A harsher punishment has yet to be invented,’ said Brutus.

‘These bags are so sturdy,’ said Matty, and he stepped from the trailer, placed a bag for life against a wall.  Already there were forty-three bags for life, each one contained fifteen kilos of grain, possibly half a ton imperial if you require conversion – chart at the end of story.

‘Yes,’ said Brutus, and ‘yes’ he said.  ‘We’ve been such good boys for Chief Crag all week, and now it’s three o’clock on a Friday afternoon and we’re still here at the factory filling bags.’

‘Bags for life.  Next week it’ll be his wife’s handbags.  For sure she has dozens in that wardrobe of hers.’

Brutus exposed his incisors.  ‘What kind of woman parades with a handbag crammed full of pig food?’ he said.

‘Probably Mrs Piglet,’ said Matty.  ‘Have you read Piglet’s Tea Party?  No, I don’t suppose you have, classic of Ladybird literature in 1972.’

This was a problem, you see, for all the love between the pair, comradeship in the face of adversity, that their interests came from world’s far removed.  Brutus, the greatest underground darts thrower in Europe, and Matty, a blogger with no readers.  They were quite different fellows.

Twilight descended, Matty wiped his brow and Brutus exhaled, a bucket held in his massive fist.  Only one more tub required fifty-three scoops of fury into the remaining shopping bags.  The bags waited like condemned men, for shortly Matty would climb the high ladder and Brutus would pass him the bags – silo-side for re-delivery.

All of a sudden, a Rolls Royce thundered down this concourse, and from the back seat emerged their Crag the capitalist.  As ever he wore his gown, the Burberry slippers.

‘Boys,’ he said, ‘stop now for your weekend Saturday is upon thee.  Look, I have a scroll  in my hand, your fourteen hundred duties for Sunday morning.’

‘Thank ye, your mastership,’ said Brutus.

Matty fixed his beret, thumbed the badges on his boiler suit collar.

‘How was your paperwork assignment, oh lordship?’ he said.  Menace growled from his lips, thinking like a pitchfork insurrection.

‘You’ve done me proud,’ said Crag, ‘those bags for life threatened to overwhelm the kitchen renovation.’

And at last in the moment of great squireship, Matty and Brutus glimpsed the method to the madness as we say going forward,  they grasped, if only a flavour, complexities of decision-making process managed by hard-working boss class.

‘Aha,’ said Matty.

‘Oh, I see,’ said Brutus from under his beard.

Crag nodded, his vision pervasive, his method entirely unfathomed by these half-creatures of the yard.

‘Chaps,’ he said,’ in a great magnanimity, ‘I have something for you both.’  He clicked his fingers, the last arrows of sunlight glinted from his digits.  Jenner, the chauffeur raced from the Roller to the tractor.

‘Hobnobs,’ said Crag, ‘take the packet and share biscuits among your families.’

A tear descended from Matty’s eye.  The weekend: he pictured hearth, his wife and piglets, jam surrounding flame, later chewed biscuits, the mug, warm water passed between [children] them.

‘Adios,’ said Crag, ‘I am off to Monte Carlo for the poultry convention,  see you boyos on Thursday,’ he said, and the roller departed, a shock of flames at its rear toward Manston International airport, the UKIP flight 101 etc beyond the hostile frontiers of EuropeEC ….THE END