 |
A tale of courage
In my youth in the Canadian Rockies, there was nothing I liked better than sitting snugly in my log cabin with a rug over my knees, a huge mug of Bovril and a nice big chunk of Kendal Mint Cake.
So, being a chap who knows his own mind, I didn’t do anything else.
People used to bang on about trapping bears and chopping down trees and crossing mountains with tennis racquets strapped to your feet and cheating death in frozen geysers and wrestling rabid wolves and landing seaplanes in the middle of the forest and all kinds of nonsense, but I never saw the point.
Once you start carrying on like that, it’s highly likely that before too long you’ll be cold, dirty, generally miserable, and wishing you were back in your log cabin doing all the things I’d been doing in mine all day.
When the company repatriated me at the end of my five-year tour of duty, there were those who accused me of not having made the most of my opportunities. Where, they yelled, were all my ‘pelts’?
I riposted that if they’d wanted me to spend five years of my life accumulating ‘pelts’, they should have ‘s-pelt’ it out.
They didn’t find this remark as amusing as I did.
So, ironically, my years in the Rockies did leave me with scars and broken bones after all.
SIMON said…
No wonder they repatriated you. The freight costs for the the Bovril and Kendall's must surely only have been exceeded by the size of the bribes necessary to get them past the customs officers whose sighting of such unashamedly English products must have set whatever percentage of French blood they might possess to boiling.
TOASTY replied…
Anticipating such a reaction, I smuggled them into Canada disguised as a nuclear warhead.
Back to Toasty’s Futon | Back to The Toasty’s Futon Archive
Send E-Mail to:
Copyright © 2005 . All Rights Reserved