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Froth Blowers’ “Piffle Snonker”.

Strat’s a bit empty tonight. The front doors locked and and there’s ‘do not cross’ tape round it.

Crossing the tape and peering through the winders I could see movement behind the bar so I made my way round the back, and found that it was in fact open but, I was told, loose slates on the front make it unsafe to approach from that direction. Ho hum.

“Ho hum indeed“ said Max “You took me over that tape too”

“I don’t think there was much to worry about Max, the wind wasn’t nearly so strong by then.”

“You lost your hat” said Max, “I’ve not seen you do that before, even in gale on a bridge.”

“It did rather take me by surprise Max and I had me ’ands full at the time. Anyway a death blow from outa the sky might not be such a bad thing.”

“For me or for you?” said Max.

“Me I suppose, I do rather face the prospect of a long and rather painful end”, I said trying to cover up.

“That as may be” said Max, but let us suppose that you quickly and suddenly succumb to a piece of the sky falling down, my prospects would then be a bit dim, would they not?”

“I like to think that your former owner might step in and continue to offer you sustenance Max, although I suppose your walks might be bit curtailed.”

“And treats in the pub?” said Max.

“Well no, I don’t suppose they would happen any more.”

“Treats do not, in my experience, just happen.” said Max, “They require a proactive intervention, agency, to use the modern argot, by a ‘concerned’ person, someone ‘caring’ even, to retrieve the putative comestibles from the bar.”

“Well yes, I suppose you are right.”

“Permit me then ” said Max, “to enquire, exactly what we are waiting for?”

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