Paws

Bait


The Magpies have been carrying out furtive reconnaisance of the tree which houses the goldfinches, greenfinches, sparrows, blue-tits and great tits that I have been feeding over the winter.

Being cold hearted towards these magnificent sleek killing machines I set up my larsen trap last night, baiting it with the remains of a gammon ham. This morning the magpies were around, but bits of the ham had disappeared. It seems by the look of the incriminating evidence left behind, that next door's beautiful black cat has been placing his paws through the bars and dragging the meat to the edge. The trap doors have not been set off, which would then require the use of a long, make that very long, broom pole and gloves to release the angry moggy.

A Saturday job.
As a yoof I had a Saturday job at Millett's in Aylesbury's Kingsbury Square. The sixties were the time of Levi's that shrank 4" in the leg and 1" in the waist when you washed them or more properly wore them in the bath. Cord jeans of every colour were available. Assisting the gentler member of the species into tight jeans was a joy for a hormonal teenager. It would still be a joy if the hormonal file cabinet was unlocked occasionally.

I digress. We had a group of customers known as the Diesel boys. Once a month the hard working, and harder drinking Irish navvies (yes the term comes from Navigators, the canal construction teams) would come into the shop; they had just been into Burtons and bought that months suit. They then headed to Millett's, bought a bag of socks and 4 pairs of underwear, plus a pair of Army drill boots, the ones with 52 metal studs in the sole. Each lad would try his new boots on with his new suit, look down admiringly and mutter, "Diesel do." They would then troop across the road to Ladbrokes, place a few bets, then gallop into the pub next door to assuage their thirst.

If you have never worked on a building site with Mick labourers you haven't lived. More on that at a later date. :-)