Easy As Falling Down A Category 4.
by: Angharad
part: 379.

"When do I get to see the new phallic symbol, then?"

"What?" asked Simon.

"The Jag."

"Phallic symbol? What's that supposed to mean? I thought you of all people would know that."

"I was joking, Si, here let me kiss your ego better."

"The smirk on your face tend to suggest you are taking the urine."

"Who, moi?" I pretended to be aghast at his suggestion. "Je suis mortified!"

"What?"

"It's Franglais, don't interrupt when I'm thinking."

"Sorry," he paused for a moment, "What!"

I sniggered, "Some days Si, you can be awfy thick."

"You sound like Oor Wullie*.

"Aye hen,..."

"Nae, that's The Broons*," he sniggered.

"We used to get both at Christmas from my Scottish grandmother. I loved them as a kid, now I prefer Calvin and Hobbes."

"That boy is positively sick, a born sociopath if ever there was one."

"If you don't like it why do you read them?" I asked.

"Because you have several of them and they are easy reading when going to bed."

"Have you taken some up to London?" I thought I had more than the few on the shelf at Tom's.

"I'm pleading the fifth, on account that any answer might incriminate me."

"We don't have a fifth amendment, so how can you plead it?"

"It's a free country, I can do what I want."

"This is true, but we don't have a written constitution, so it follows case law."

"So?"

"So you can't plead it."

"You're saying that means you are depriving me of a right I should have under the human rights act."

"What are you on about?"

"It is depriving me and thus contrary to the human rights act."

"The human rights act, I always thought was designed to protect all the people in Europe, enable security of a home, work, family and religious worship."

"You don't vote then?"

"Is that covered too?"

"I'd have thought so, otherwise we are in trouble."

"Don't do politics," I sighed.

"Not on the grand scale we do in Westminster but otherwise you seem very political, from your bloody Guardian, to your choice of clothing.

"My clothing?"

"Yes, your Che Guevara tee shirt."

"Wearing a Che tee shirt doesn't make me a rebel, nor revolting."

"Revolting?"

"The peasants are revolting."

"Not that old chestnut!" he shook his head.

"Sorry, but I thought you went peasant shooting."

"Much as I'd like to, I resist the urge. I don't even shoot pheasants nowadays."

"Thats the ones, pheasants," I squealed and Simon winced.

"I don't think Che Guevara was into saving pheasants, unless it was for dinner tomorrow. Besides what has it got to do with the price of dormice?"

"Simon, Che Guevara wasn't a dormouse, I have proof of that."

"Incontrovertible scientific evidence."

"Erm? Not entirely, but photos of his body after he was shot by the Bolivian police."

"So it should show his hairy tail?"

"At the risk of sounding indelicate, wouldn't the hairy dangly bit, be something other than a tail?"

"Does the photo show that?" he looked almost horrified.

"Not as far as I know, wouldn't it be a Che too far?"

He groaned, "I have to go, I'll pick you up at tea time, be ready."

"Why can't I come home now."

"Mr Gordon originally said he'd check you tomorrow, I said I wanted to take you for a short holiday. He agreed it would be okay, he would organise a discharge note in case you were taken ill in France."

"He doesn't think that does he, 'cos if so, I'd rather stay home."

"No, he's just covering every eventuality."

"Have you really bought a Jaguar?"

"Would I lie to you?"

"Can I take that fifth amendment..."

(* Oor Wullie and The Broons, are comic strips in The Sunday Post, a Scottish newspaper.)