Friday April 26, 2019
Tom Winnifrith Postcard - an ode to my ancestral homelands in the Grim North
Photo Article from the Greek Hovel - good news and bad
Photo Article - walking around Stourhead with the Mrs and Joshua, the end of the Booker family memory lane


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Oakley recovers from the working classes

Please share this article with your comrades in revolutionary capitalism

- Tom Winnifrith

If there is one thing that my morbidly obese three legged cat hates more than the working classes it is the sound of them at work. Switch on a hoover and he knows that it is the Polish cleaning ladies. Switch on a drill and he knows that it is a little man the Mrs has called in to do some little job for her.

As long as the working classes come just to yak on about something Oakley merely runs upstairs and goes to sleep on a bed. If the guest has dulcet middle class tones he knows they are bound to be a soft touch and sits downstairs to beg for food. Thus Oakley outed the vicar as working class as he bolted like a shot when the man in the dog collar arrived to talk christenings.

If a hoover is switched on Oakley goes on further, hiding underneath a duvet. All you can see is a rather large bump in the bed. He was therefore a bump in the bed an hour ago as the cleaners did their bit. As soon as they left he jogged down two flights of stairs and is now sitting in the front room with me watching me type.

Now and again he miaows. He never used to miaow where his friend Tara was alive. She did all the begging for the both of them and Oakley was almost silent. But since her passing away almost a year ago, needs must and the old boy is now really quite noisy.


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