My beloved Miss Moneypenny is out the back in the tiny garden. A glazed look in her neon yellow green eyes. She is nibbling contentedly on the end of a giant blade of grass. Her rotund form around her like a big black ball. She looks at me in the manner of ‘i don’t know you now and please don’t start talking or you’ll ruin all my cool’..
She is not quite so delicate as she seems since i have seen her chew off with equal ease the end of a wooden branch-not to mention the poor decapitated mouse that she played home football with, lobbing it casually from paw to paw ).
But, what is this? i espy the tall silhouette of Bernie above, on the concrete topped extension above her. (She hasn’t seen him yet) Sleek black Bernie of the golden name tag who lives on our road and comes a calling for dear little (ok not quite so little) Miss Mp. Large of shoulders and bony tipped, he slinks coolly and casually along the pavements of the street, King of the Road quite clearly.
Introducing himself to me with enviable old world charm and impressing me with said golden tag. (ok, it’s brass). He had come to call on my beloved.
Enquiring delicately under the front door and positioning himself there faithfully, night after night and daytime too, he prevailed upon Miss Mp to recognises his charms and consider his courtship and even possible betrothal i construe. Each night and day,through the gap of the crooked bottom of the door, Miss Mp peeks, sniffs and quivers, growling alternately and frozen in fear.
Miss Mp is not impressed with his cavalier suit. Like an excited Jane Austen Aunt i had proffered his cause, citing his gentlemanly manners and courtly behaviour of which i approved. Alas and alack it was to no avail..
Now poor Bernie, his loverly hopes dashed forever like the cruel sea beating down on pebble stones has all but given up. Reduced to gazing down in pining lovelorn loss at his beloved from vantage points above.
He turns sadly on his heels (well four of them) and slinks away like a lonely cowboy in the night. Disappearing over the horizon forever doomed to be a high plains drifter. (If he could have found a poncho his size he would have one.) Lean shoulders sagged with sorrow…