Our 50th wedding anniversary is impending and, this being a small village, M. le Maire* sent a minion to ask if we wished our photo in the village mag, being officially attapersoned. Missus immediately said yes!!! and an appointment was set for this evening. Now she's buzzing round like a blue-arsed fly dusting, polishing and shooing the poor bloody dogs from pillar to post and don't pee on it. I have been enjoined to bear a hand, e.g. in removing the defunct microwave from the chest in the hall where it has been perfectly OK for the last two years and in putting up the regulation smoke alarm the Law sez we have to have, all winken and blinken to gladden the mayoral peepers. Arguments such as "I think the microwave's quaint" and "it wasn't me who invited the fucker" are as an old fart (me) in the hurricane.
Have just finished picking plaster out of my hair and shirt-collar, and already I hear the approach of the Deadly Duster of Doom. I must fly... tell them I died bravely.
P.S. I banged my head putting the microwave in the car boot. I'm going to tell the Mayor she hit me.
* not that M. le Maire