That’s me that is, Dear Reader, galumphing off into the ‘Fourteen Acre Wood.’
I kid you not, darlings, that’s what it’s really called.
‘What does it make you think about?’ enquired the Admiral, ‘the name, Fourteen Acre Wood?’
‘Winnie the Pooh,’ replied One.
‘Oh no,’ says he, ‘Rupert Bear, surely.’
‘What’s Rupert Bear’s middle name?’ asked One.
‘How the feck would I know?’ answered the A.
‘The,’ said One, charging off up the lane.
And there you have it, Dear Reader, One has inadvertently stumbled upon the opposing camps that persons fall into, in life, in general…
He: The Rupert Bear Camp
One: The Winnie the Pooh Camp
Were the A of the F a fictional bear, he would be Rupert: All sensible and upstanding, alert, clever, beautifully proportioned and effortlessly smart in his check trousers and pure new woolly.
One, however, would be ‘Pooh’: simple, round, hand forever stuffed in the honey-pot, flolloping around the wood in a day-dream being cuddly and chasing dreams.
Should, however, the A of the F be a dinner, he would be a Sunday Roast: Pork, with crunchy crackling, crispy on the outside potatoes, perfectly risen Yorkshire puddings, and a sensible selection of green vegetables.
One would be an enormous confection in the shape of a fresh cream and summer berries Pavlova, tumbling off a cake stand in a frivolous manner and leaving a trail of sugary crumbs all over the dining hall carpet.
Were we two cars: He would be a top of the range, Range Rover, with all the ‘extras’ and shiny leather seats, whilst One would no doubt be a Mini Cooper (the old model) towing one of those tiny ‘one person’ caravans, stuffed to the gunnels with Norman Hartnell ball gowns and paintbrushes.
‘Is this a deal-breaker?’ One hears you ask, Dear Reader.
‘No, of course not,’ replies One with a mischievous glint in the eye, ‘It’ll just make for a very interesting ride.’