Arbuthnot Shortens My Pole

Well, talk about raves from the grave, it's been a matter of aeons since Arbuthnot and Dorothy last appeared on these pages. To be fair, Dorothy isn't about to appear now, either. So you'll just have to enjoy this story of Arbuthnot and his buzzing appliance.


Firstly, we need to cast out minds back a few weeks to when Mrs The Millbrooker heard a disturbance in the back garden (no - regular readers in the cheap seats, you didn't miss it; I didn't blog it.)


Upon investigating, my ever-loving found a small number of BT's workforce inhabiting a tiny patch of our garden and a larger patch of neighbour-from-heaven Margaret's next door. Their task for the day was to take down a telegraph pole that has resided on Margaret's side of the garden wall since time immemorial and replace it with another, much less well rotted version.


"Want any firewood?" one of the BT men asked, as Mrs The Millbrooker looked upon their labours in the manner of one who lives in a small haven from reality where not an awful lot happens, and this sort of thing counts as genuine entertainment.


The response was affirmative, thus giving the BT men slightly less of a task as it meant they could simply abandon the telegraph pole in our garden rather than chop it into manageable chunks and cart it away.


Which brings us to Monday of last week. I'm nothing if not up-to-date with my tittle-tattle, as I'm sure you've noted.


Arbuthnot was dispatched post-haste by Dorothy at the request of Mrs The Millbrooker to come and use his mighty and powerful tool up our back way. And so he did.

And the firewood has been both keeping us warm and keeping us smelling faintly of creosote ever since.


Many thanks, of course, to Arbuthnot for his endeavours. I wasn't allowed to even touch his tool this time on account of Mrs The Millbrooker requiring me to maintain the usual collection of limbs. I shall just have to dream on . . .