His truck is parked in the drive; I am keen to enquire about the eggs in the flower pot.
“Wha…?” I begin, as I push open the gate.
Short Tony is stood at the washing line, hanging up underwear. He turns sharply at the squeak of iron.
“Don’t say anything,” he snarls.
I retreat a couple of paces. It is very odd and unsettling seeing him with clothes pegs in his hand. It is like inadvertantly witnessing Brian Cant with a whore.
Muttering something apologetic, I return to the Cottage to put the shopping away. The gender-reverse thing is getting ridiculous, especially since the LTLP has been working abroad and Mrs Short Tony has got her job. I blame the permissiveness of the sixties that culminated with free availability of the contraceptive pill, the wider availability of university education and the subsequent heightened political awareness of working class women, or the advent of BBC TV’s ‘The Vicar of Dibley’.
Later on, I pass Eddie, who is taking some mail to the Post Office in a properly feminine way. Later, I pop in to see her, and interrupt her cleaning the bathroom. This makes me feel a bit better, but I can’t help that she is a one-woman Village Queen Canute.