I recall from my long-ago school days a master of mine making me stand before my third-form mates after some perceived outrage during my translation of Cicero. “Smythe-Brown, you are a fool,” he said, gripping me by an ear.
“Yes, sir,” I replied nervously.
“ What are you, boy?” the master bellowed while folding my appendage harshly.
“A fool, sir!” I said, dropping to my knees in pain.
“Then get out of my sight, cretin!” Whereupon he kicked me in the rear end with one of his size 15s, out the door.

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The other morning I opened one eye, as is my wont, to survey the geography and assess the chances of an ambush. I was right to do so, for there were my wife’s two cats staring back at me with a look of malevolence in their pitiless orbs.
As I fought to open my other eye, the wretched creatures licked me in and around my startled mouth. Steady on! I mean to say these are the same filthy criminals that wash their fundaments via the tongue.

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There are not many things in this life that I am afraid of anymore, I suppose because at my age there is not too much that anyone can do to me. For instance, I cannot be fired from a job as I have been retired for some time now. Nor can I be made to feel badly because I am not invited to large parties full of influential people whose influence I am not interested in.

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I goggled like Hannibal must have goggled when told that another precious pachyderm had just blown a tire and sailed off the frozen alpine path into the deep valley below. My favourite barman and waiter, Rodgers, had just informed me there would not be a butter tart in sight this lunchtime. The room swam before me.

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I really don’t know what to make of some people these days, I mean as to how rude they can be. There is a member here at the club who appears to make it his business to upset other mems whenever he can.

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