BY ERROL (HEAD OF MARKETING, RETIRED VETERAN)

🐾 REPORTING FROM THE FIELD: Last Saturday, the corporate caravan rolled into Porthmadog for the craft fair outside the community centre. Strategy-wise, the setup looked promising. The weather was a lovely, blazing hot day, though the wind was putting on a bit of a performance, whipping off the harbour with distinct tactical intent.

Naturally, this meant the f-ing eejit had the usual catastrophic difficulties putting up the gazebo. Watching a tall hooman engage in a high-stakes wrestling match with a canopy under a brisk gale is a spectator sport I usually enjoy. But to be completely honest with my readers, I wasn’t really feeling my best.

The truth is, the old war wound is playing up again. My left knee is simply not all it was during my glory days in the trenches.

A Brisk Trade and the Velvet Ropes

Despite my physical setbacks, duty called. We had a brisk passing trade all afternoon, and the stall was surrounded by lots of lovely people admiring the silver and the robots. A few rather excellent doggies attempted to approach the perimeter to pay their respects to the Head of Marketing, but I wasn’t in the mood for corporate networking. I deployed a low, rumbling growl from the shadows beneath the table to keep them at a safe, respectful bay. A veteran needs his personal space.

It got me thinking as I lay there on my blanket. Perhaps I have been indulging in a few too many “duks on stiks” lately. Perhaps there have just been too many long, exhausting days on the road. The hard reality is that I am getting olds.

I know what you are all thinking. When you see me bounding around the 18th-century chapel or leaping at a stray piece of spaghetti, I look like a springy, bouncy puppy. I have the sleek profile of a young operative. But inside this youthful facade, I have to face the cold, hard facts: I am rapidly turning into an old doggie.

Flashbacks to the Front Lines

The throbbing in my knee brought back a flood of memories. My mind drifted away from the windy Porthmadog pavement and straight back to the old days. The muddy trenches. The smell of biscuits under fire. The terrifying whistle of the rogue water sprayers on the western front. I was a different dog back then—young, reckless, fighting for king, country, and the right to chew the sofa cushions. I gave my youth to the service, and this dodgy knee is the price I pay.

Eventually, the wind died down, the eejit managed to keep the roof attached, and we packed up the gazeebo to head home early. It was a successful deployment, but as I rest my chin on the cool chapel tiles today, I am embracing a slower pace. The corporate ladder is a young pup’s game, but as long as the Goddess Mummy is by my side to rub my aching joints, this old soldier will keep marching on.

Over and out.

KthxBai – Errol