If I were being honest with you, walking around the village and talking to fellow dog-walkers is usually not too disagreeable an experience – providing one has a high tolerance for mundanity and repetition. (You also get to hear an awful lot about people’s illnesses.) But I was talking to an rather exasperating old chap this morning with a King Charles Cavalier who was so boring – the man, not the spaniel – that I was almost impelled to commit an act of public strangulation.
I had to listen for at least fifteen minutes while he droned on and on about his malfunctioning central-heating boiler and much trouble he has been having trying to get ‘some jumped-up Johnny’ from the district council to come out and fix it for him. ‘I’d do it myself,’ he kept telling me, ‘But those things are dangerous, you know. Health and Safety.’
‘H’m. Sounds like you’re having quite a – ‘
‘Arseholes, them council Johnnies are. Don’t know they’ve ever been born. Get ‘em in the army, that’s what I say. Afghanistan. That would sort ‘em out. Get ‘em out there givin’ the Taliban what-for. Show ‘em who’s the boss. Teach ‘em a thing or two about respect. Queen and Country.’
I stepped back slightly in case he wanted to salute.
‘What’s wrong with your boiler, anyway? Have you tried – ‘
‘I’m not fixing it myself, man. Are you mad? Health and Safety. It’s very easy for a man’s shirt sleeve to just catch fire, you know, and for him to go up in flames.’
‘Yes, it is,’ I agreed, feeling somewhat disappointed with the world.
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