Burnsall, in Wharfedale, is a nice place – and quite posh. I saw this bloke shovelling horse manure into a trailer. But he was wearing very smart, neatly pressed trousers and a pristine shirt and tie. I stopped to ask him why he was dressed up so smart.
“Well, I’m off to a wedding, so I put ma newer clothes on.”
“But what about the smell?” I asked. “Well, the bride and groom wanted orthodentic stuff – real country smells and all that.”
“Don’t you mean ‘authentic’” I pointed out.
“Naw,” he said. “If I can chew it with ma teeth, then it’ll be allreet for guests. They ‘ave it with wedding cake round these parts.”
PS. This story stinks. I wrote it with one of ma newer pens.
Farmchair Filosophy - being a harvesting of my ponderings from my wanderings over the hills, including re-workings of philosophy and ancient wisdom within an agricultural and bucolic paradigm, axioms, hammerisms, maxims, minims, aphids and aphorisms.
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