We were driving to the coast. Mr Darby Pickles' microchip is still not transferred to my details, but 'dang it' thought we, we are going to take him for a leash-free run on Fairhaven Beach and see how he goes. It's a good hour and a bit drive and at about forty-five minutes someone, not naming any names, or going with the usual assumption that everything naughty comes from Darby and not Lollii, but someone, in the back seat, starting farting. Farting with a vileness not known outside of Hell. V—— pulled into a side street and I took the little people for a relief walk. V—— got out his golf
Apparently a decent whack of the ball had ended in a lacklustre shot and given the ball was just on the other side of the fence, my wise loved one decided to climb the fence and retrieve it. He tested the wires. All okay. And then swung one leg over. Obviously the fence was on a pulsing electric current. And obviously the current slyly waited for the leg-either-side, sensitive-area-in-contact moment to pass by V——'s location. Poor fella! Golf balls have a price, but I don't think this is it. Mind you, I think I owe him a bag of balls for the value telling this story has given me. Makes me laugh. (Sorry.)
Who Wore It Better?
Doing the link-in love-in today with: