Taking our Jobs

I was sitting up in the Professor’s study harmlessly emailing about the place when there was a tremendous outbreak of scuttering from downstairs. Aha, I thought. Miss New Best Friend has turned up, and they are playing a tremendous Silly Bitch game of ‘run round and round the house in figures of eight until we’re dizzy’. Not a bit of it. I went down to retrieve some bit of info from a notebook, to find the Hero Biswell washing his hands. The blasted sheep (who had not been sighted for a couple of days) had simply stormed into the house to have a good look round. Poor Miss Dog was quaking on the sofa in abject fright. They had crapped, naturally, all over the floor & poor Dr B had dealt manfully with the result rather than getting me to come down and help, which I think is pretty damn good of him. But the cheek of the things! I ask you! Where’s it going to end? Some morning or other I’ll open my eyes and there will be Napoleon the Sheep lolling on the end of the bed saying ‘Duvets, eh? What a good idea. When’s breakfast?’ — We are going to eat Napoleon the Sheep. That’s DEFINITE. Even the Northern Professor, who’s vegetarian, will have a token chunk, just to reaffirm the Great Chain of Being.

One Response to “Taking our Jobs”

  1. The Man From Maryport Says:

    Suggestion for the heroic Dr Biswell, should he be called upon to exercise
    pastoral care upon Napoleon and his cohorts in the near future -

    Take the laptop up to the paddock, teach the little bastards how to surf,
    and then show them this site -


    as a terrible warning of what will happen to them the next time they darken
    your carpets . .

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