R
Ray Stafford
A question of deep philosophical resonance, Mr Cropp.
Before coming to the issue of Mr Freeman's potential vindication, perhaps I may divert a moment and reflect on the character of his partner in inadvertent malevolence - The Squirrel?
You may recall, Mr Cropp, that in a prior installment, The Squirrel had rendered valueless much of my labour. The creaking knees and paralysed back were in vain. 29.99 tonnes of spring bulbs lay rotting on the surface, acting only as decomposing markers for the burial locations of Messrs Waitrose finest hazelnuts. I found this somewhat irksome Mr Cropp, not to say vexing. It would be no exaggeration to say that I was discombobulated, a point upon which I may have dwelt, not without rancour, at the time.
But my dealings with The Squirrel were far from over Mr Cropp. Very far from over.
It came as something of a surprise to me to discover that Mrs S could detect incipient hunger in the Squirrel at 50 paces. I had not hitherto been aware of her veterinarian qualifications, specialising as she clearly must have done in the nutrition of the Sciurus Carolinensis. Attempts to gainsay or contradict Mrs S are uniformly characterised by their complete hopelessness, and thus it was that I found myself despatched to acquire a squirrel feeder, along with a substantial quantity of additional squirrelly sustenance, in the form of a bushel or twain of peanuts.
It was not without a sense of pained irony that I stepped over the 29.99 tonnes of unearthed spring bulbs in order to mount the feeder on the side of the garden shed. But I had learned my place, Mr Cropp. I had learned that my place is very, very many places down the pecking order from The Squirrel. Indeed, I paused to wonder what I had done to earn the signal honour of attending to the needs of such a royal rodent.
And how do you suppose, Mr Cropp, that The Squirrel reacted to this calorific abundance? One might imagine that he threw himself energetically upon the feeder, thus creating many a photographic opportunity for Mrs S to immortalise his existential squirreliness? Or at the very least make a trifling effort to consume a token peanut or two? Alas not, Mr Cropp. The Squirrel comprehensively ignored the freshly mounted feeding station with an insouciant disregard for the goods on offer that one would normally associate only with Mr Adam Pace in a real ale public house.
As the weeks went by, The Squirrel eschewed the peanuts with the same determined rectitude as a methodist minister avoids the demon rum. Eventually, they rotted in the feeder, and guess who, Mr Cropp, was despatched to cleanse and re-supply the device? How perceptive of you Mr Cropp - you are quite correct in your surmise - it was I, Mr Cropp, who scooped out the manky mess, who scrubbed it clean, dried it, and repeated the sad perambulation across the scene of exhumed tulips and daffs to replace it on the side of the shed. Where it remains to this day, Mr Cropp, entirely un-molested by The Squirrel.
"But what of Mr Freeman?" I hear you ask.
But you ask in vain Mr Cropp. I have expunged Mr Freeman from my memory. He is as nothing to me - not even the faintest shadow of a memory. His existence is less than a mayfly's brief dance.
That is what I tell myself Mr Cropp. That is how I pretend to the world that my hatred for Mr Freeman has passed.
But deep down... I still hate you Mr Freeman. I still hate you deeply.
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