Mole

Nature is and can be pretty brutal. Take the mole, the rotund glutton of the subsoil, dressed in velvet permanently ready for dinner, lunch and breakfast, easting on worms, I should imagine, frantically burrowing like a, well like a mole, hardly pausing to take a breath, always eating, the slightest whiff of the tube like body, no limbs, no eyes, no brain and they are one it like a car bonnet. When they do finally come up for air, or a breather, no idea of the time of day or night, they burst forth from the centre of a mound of soil and probably their own shit, which they create; the scourge of the gardener but a gift for its predator, the sharp eyed Buzzard, who can see the soil expanding from a mile off, not literally, that’s probably a dubious fact of the day (remember them readers?) So the Buzzard sees the soil moving, and circles, the mole pokes his filthy head out into the sunlight, holds his hand up tho protect his eyes from the sun and “Whoosh, Boom” the Buzzard swoops, knock the mole out, rendering him or her tachycardic and making the mole have a heart attack and die as no woodland creatures know how to use the defibrillator in the phone box next to the bus stop. Poor mole, isn’t nature wonderful. This is cast iron fact and as seen by the photo of the mole above, his hand remains for ever in a state of rigour mortis shielding his eyes from the bright lights, until a fox or leopard comes to sweep up the Buzzard’s sport.

My 85 year old Pop went in for an operation today, removal of a hernia, he was meant to be in overnight but is fit as a butchers dog and so an hour after the operation was completed, my mate,  who I shall call J to respect his privacy (although he works at the Spire in Leicester so look him up, he’ll be wearing an Aphex Twin face mask),well he walks in and couldn’t believe my Dad had had the op, as he sat there serenely as if to imitate a man half his age and healthier than me (I’m not that healthy, but not on the danger of extinction list just yet). So I’m chuffed, he came home this evening in a taxi, turns up at the door and in a broken stroke affected voice said to my Mum, his loving wife,

“Pay the man J (I’ll have to disguise her identity too but rest assured my Mum is not the same person as my mate previously mentioned, in case there is any confusion.)

In other Ministry News, remember that? This is meant to be about dog walking or it was when I started this charade, anyway the men from the ministry namely M, N and D have decided to do another Wales walk, not up Crib Goch as last years near death experience put me off that type off walk, but up a slightly tamer mountain, Pen-y-Fan. So watch this space, that’s a week today hopefully, expect great things from your correspondent on the rock face as it were.

Night

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