Thursday, December 01, 2011

Harry Workington

Hello, my name is Harry Workington. I am 83 years old and have a wonderful house. It is very cosy, there is a fireplace, a coffee table and a smooth surface on the kitchen counters. I try not to scrape them and dust them regular-like.
I go to the local bakery every Thursday and buy myself a meat pie. Jonathan Wood works at the bakery, he and Mr. Thistle work night and day baking the best produce for our little street.
Ethal George lives across the road from me, shes got a bump in her tummy this week. Jonathan says it's all the bread she'd been buying, I says its a new baby girl or boy.
Jonathan says he wonders who the father might be, maybe his boss, Terry Thistle. Ethal had visited the bakery a lot recently, maybe to see Terry?

I asked Jonathan if he had heard about Old Ricky Wiggs from number 21, how he'd sadly passed away last night. Left his lonely house to a cold, bored dog to look after.

I suggested my son, Laurence Workington take the dog as his own. Laurence was having none of it, his last wife cheated on him with a sea lion you see, a female sea lion. So animals and such, or anything a little bit out of his comfort zone were a no go for my son.
"How did he die?" Asked Jonathan

It was a nasty event, Ricky got his leg stuck in his dog door, so Miss Perkins chopped it off. Old Wiggs lost so much blood he'd died before the ambulance had arrived.
"I'm flabbergasted" Says Jonathan. "I'd have never thought of Miss Perkins being able to do such a thing to a leg."
I told him that she was a practising surgeon, she was trying to impress Terry Thistle, but unfortunately she'd only studied two books. She tried to squeeze the wound with her hands but it just squirted out more blood. She used toilet paper in the end but the red just soaked through. The blood was all down the pebbles.

"What about Miss George then, think she is pregnant with a baby girl or boy? Either it is Terry or the Postman, what was his name? ... Mar.."
Mart Mekelly, yes there was him, and he stunk! He used to creep into my garden and steal apples from our apple tree. He deserved what he got.
"What happened to him? Mr. Workington?"
Well, i says to him, you knows that woman at number 3 that always throws children's shoes up on the electric wire? He nodded, well she threw Mart up there as well, he could not get down for a week. Ethal George was laughing at him in his face.
"Oh how terrible"
I told him about Daniels Workington, my grandson, son of Laurence and how he wanted to be an artist when he was older. I says there's no work in that dear boy I said, them artists never worked an honest day in their lives. As for you Jonathan, you're a woods, your families been cutting down trees for centuries, until now of course. But baking is sure a worthy profession. I don't agree with such things as Justin Baby, the singer. He blummin never worked a day his life.
Jonathan agreed with me, he is a hard working honest chap, Jonathan.

I told my grandson, I saids you're a Workington, we got our name for exactly that, being hard workers. It's a good profession being a worker, so stick to it dear boy.
Well, I'm open to new things, I'm a modern man, a bit old, but the wrinkles are all a lady wants at this age I'm sure. I've never dyed my hair, I know the ladies like to re-make their old colours before theys went all grey but I look good in my sharp white hair. I believe a person respects a man like me, in a waistcoat, walking stick in hand. Mr. Shovwell, (Came from a long line of Shovwells) said I looked the part of a good, friendly, funny grandpa.
Then he said, shame I was not that, give the look back to a nicer guy.

Jonathan handed me the meat pie and I said my goodbyes and hellos to Mr. Thistle who was busy in the back room baking.

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