Thursday, September the 1st, 2005

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When Haddo-haddo Becomes Musto ; Or, the Greaves of Way-o

Pat the pouch in which you keep your watch and listen while I tell you about the times when haddo-haddo becomes musto. Pouch patted? All well and good, and the time on your watch ticking and tocking. Attend to the tocks, my mother always said, but my father was rather a tick man. He was a poster boy for the greaves of way-o, big grinning fangs and a lopsided hat, and no pal of haddo-haddo. Every Thursday he brought home an eel, already dead, and he chopped it up on the sideboard with his mighty hatchet, and then he fed it to the cat.

I was trained in botany, because I became musto. I was alert to both the ticks and the tocks, given my upbringing. I had a lot of lanterns. Remember this was fenland, flat and wet, no haddo-haddo here. They used to give me a new biro on my birthday but I always lost them soon enough. The greaves of way-o were big on biros then, I remember, especially in the fens.

I had by musto my ha'penny salt tokens. In those days my management skills were second to none. It was all like clockwork to me, but one thing I am not going to talk about is the presence of toads and my presentiments thereof.

So mark well the eel, the cat, the biros, the fens, that tick and tock, and your patted pouch, and you can bet your own ha'penny token on haddo-haddo becoming musto, all aboard the greaves of way-o, say I.