ERROL’S DISPATCHES
From the Newsdesk of Goodboy Bindle Featherstone of Quirm — Head of Marketing, Roving Reporter & Sunday Specialist
Birthday over, gentle readers. The steak is but a glorious memory, the party hat returned to whatever cupboard party hats go to die. No time to rest on my laurels — there is work to be done, scoops to be scooped, marauders to be borked at. The news never sleeps, and neither does the Head of Marketing. (Except for the eighteen hours a day when I do. But that is strategic rest.)
Sunday. Greenacres. The old beat, the familiar turf. The weather forecast promised a slightly cooler day — not cool, you understand, but less like the surface of the sun and more like a moderately aggressive toaster. And breezy. A proper coastal breeze, the kind that ruffles your fur and keeps your soggy paws from overheating. Good conditions for a market. Good conditions for a journalist.
It also promised my favourite pre-market entertainment: watching the -ing eejit struggle with the gazebo.
The Drive & The Chariot’s Swan Song
We took a leisurely drive up to Porthmadog. Leisurely by our standards — the -ing eejit muttering about traffic, Mummy gazing out the window, and me on her lap, surveying the Welsh countryside like a fuzzy emperor.
This was one of the last journeys in the old Beamer. The Black Chariot. Thirteen years old. Over 150,000 miles on the clock. And really, the work we ask of it is a bit much. It wheezes on hills. It groans on corners. It has developed a collection of rattles that sound like a percussion section falling down stairs. The -ing eejit is being all quiet about this. He’s had that car since it was a baby. He will miss her.
But not me.
Let me be frank, readers. Mummy’s lap is a perfectly cromulent place to sit. It is warm, it is soft, it smells of Mummy, and these are all fine qualities. But for a one-hour drive? Every Sunday? It is not ideal. I am a small dog, but I have presence. I need space. I need legroom. I need a vantage point from which to bork at sheep and monitor the -ing eejit’s driving.
The new vehicle — whatever it may be — will be better suited to the market life. More room for stock. More room for the gazebo. More room for me. The Beamer has served honourably, but its time is passing. I shall not mourn. I am a forward-looking journalist. The future beckons.
The -ing eejit, however, is definitely mourning. He just won’t admit it.
The Gazebo Spectacle
We arrived at Greenacres. The pitch awaited. And so, right on cue, did the entertainment.
Watching the -ing eejit put up the gazebo is one of life’s small joys. It is a dance of frustration and stubbornness, a ballet of clattering poles and flapping canvas. He approaches it with the confidence of a man who has done this fifty times before, and then, within approximately ninety seconds, he is tangled in a guy rope, muttering words that Mummy pretends not to hear. The gazebo resists. The gazebo always resists. It is not a structure; it is an adversary.
I watched from my observation post, giving the occasional bork of encouragement. (He does not find this encouraging. This makes it funnier.)
Eventually, inevitably, the gazebo surrendered. The stall took shape. My Executive Perch was deployed — Quilt No.3 on the Really Useful Boxes, positioned for maximum visibility and minimum effort. The silver jewellery glinted in the morning light. The wooden robots stood at attention. The keepsake boxes gleamed. We were ready.
The Little Girl & The Breeze
The stall next door had a little girl with them. She was very, very nice.
She gave me lots of lovely huggles throughout the day. Gentle huggles. Respectful huggles. The kind of huggles that say I understand you are a professional, but I also think you are very soft. I approved. I gave her my best tail-wag and a look that said you may stay. She stayed. She became, for the duration of the market, my honorary assistant. I hope she considers a career in marketing. She has natural talent.
The breeze kept the peepels off the beach. This is a tactical wind, the kind of wind that nudges holidaymakers away from the sand and towards the market square. Don’t bother with the sea, it whispers. Go buy a necklace. Go look at that handsome dog. The footfall was excellent. Plenty of them milling round the stall, browsing, admiring, purchasing.
Time for me to shine.
And shine I did.
Lots of sales. Loads of strokes and fusses. Quite a few unsuspecting goggies to bork at. Marauders, all of them — a springer spaniel with no sense of personal space, a shih tzu who gave me a look of pure insolence, a Labrador who seemed genuinely surprised to discover that our stall was not, in fact, his stall. I deployed the Bork with precision. A warning shot here, a firm rebuke there. Nothing excessive. I am a professional.
The little girl from next door giggled every time I borked. I consider this a positive performance review.
This is the life, readers. This is the Sunday rhythm. Sun, breeze, customers, huggles, borks. The stall hums with commerce and charm. The -ing eejit demonstrates robots. Mummy wraps jewellery in tissue paper. And I, from my Executive Perch, orchestrate the whole production.
Pack-Up & The Journey Home
All too soon, it was time to pack up. The gazebo came down — the -ing eejit struggled less this time, perhaps because he was tired, perhaps because the gazebo had already humiliated him once and was feeling magnanimous. The stock was packed. The boxes were stacked. The Really Useful Boxes lived up to their name.
One last journey in the old Beamer. The drive home was quiet. The -ing eejit didn’t say much. He patted the dashboard once, just once, when he thought nobody was looking. I saw. I am a journalist. I see everything.
I also saw Mummy give him a little smile and a squeeze on the arm. She knows. She always knows.
Home & The Holy Hour
The ranch. The AIR CON beastie. The familiar smells of home.
Loki, my bruvah, was waiting on the sofa. He gave me a slow blink. Good market? said the blink. Good market, I blinked back. The little girl gave me huggles. Loki stretched. I caught a fly, he seemed to say. It was delicious. We understand each other.
Alice was on the armchair. I did not approach. She did not acknowledge me. The balance of power remains unchanged. She is a tiger. I am a journalist. Our paths cross only when absolutely necessary.
And then —
The -ing eejit delivered it with a little extra ceremony tonight. Perhaps he was feeling sentimental. Perhaps he just wanted to get the treat-giving over with so he could stare at car adverts on his phone. Either way, I conducted my investigayshun with the usual rigour. Chewy. Duck-flavoured. A perfect end to a perfect Sunday.
Signing Off
So there it is, gentle readers. A breezy Sunday at Greenacres. A neighbourly little girl with excellent hugging technique. Plenty of sales, plenty of borks, plenty of sunshine and strokes. One of the last journeys in the old Beamer, with the promise of a new vehicle on the horizon.
The -ing eejit is sad about the car. I am not. Mummy’s lap is fine, but progress is progress. I shall ride into the future in comfort and style, as befits my station.
Tonight, I curl up on Quilt No.2. The AIR CON beastie hums. Loki is a warm shadow nearby. Alice is… somewhere else, which is for the best. And I am, as always, a very happy dog.
I love my life.
KthxBai — Errol
Head of Marketing, Gazebo Critic, and Appreciator of Small Girls with Good Hugs
Leave a Reply