When you’re a geriatric gardener sharing quarters with four dogs, twenty chickens and two monstrous men, peace and solitude become the holy grail of weekends. I need no disco lights, no barbecues, no sand in my sandwiches, no hordes of friends.
But solitude is hard-won around these parts with hens a-cluckin’, dogs a-barkin’ and siblings a-strimmin’. I’d need to lock the whole lot up in a soundproof bunker just to hear myself think.
Now there’s a thought! I have a massive shed eminently suited to the task. Getting them in there? Why that's a doddle with the mesmeric music of my fipple flute...pied piper-style don't ya know.
As my long-suffering readers may recall, through no fault of my own, I play the piano. But my musical misfortunes do not end there. I am also proficient in the recorder, a kind of tin whistle that, in my day, every schoolchild was forced to master.
For those of you, dear reader, whose powers of observation are deficient or the unfortunate among you who are blind in both eyes, allow me to explain that my humble artwork depicts my ideal weekend pre and post lockup. With the alluring melody of my magic tin whistle I lure the noisy nuisances indoors, then laughing manically, retire to my hammock with a book.
And if you've made it this far without skipping to the end, you may find yourself wondering if I am, as we say in Ireland, a feckin' eejit. All I can say, dear reader, is that the evidence would point firmly toward yes.
Indubitably.
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Posted in response to galenkp's weekend experience
prompt asking you to 'Draw a stick figure of yourself enjoying your ideal weekend/ you a fucken idiot? .'
All masterpieces are dedicated to @krazzytrukker, the craziest fucker trucker on the blockchain and possibly the most handsome.