Being a pile-hunter can veer from one extreme to the other.
After my tropical island experience I now found myself on a muddy British farm, face to face with a pig.
The specifics of how I got here are barely worth a mention, but needless to say I was no less excited about the pile I discovered alongside this common barn animal as I was with the exotic piles kept by the Pandas, Tortoises and Hamsters of previous weeks. After all my motto is:
PILES MAY VARY IN HEIGHT AND DENSITY
BUT THEY ARE ALL EQUAL IN MY HEART
I met Emilio the Pig by his sty, he was a happy pig: gloriously pink in the ruminative afternoon sunshine. He was also a lot more open with his piles than most animals, and without any reservation he led me straight to his pile of poofs.
Now Emilio was not a homosexual pig (although there was strong evidence that leant him towards a metrosexual bent) and a Poof in this instance is one of those fluffy things you take in the shower with you that maximises the bubble potential from your soap or showergel.
Emilio loved to be clean and he smelt as sweet as the Woolworths pick-and-mix counter, but he was given a very low weekly ration of soap by his vindictive farmer. So he needed to make every bubble last, and that was why he had so many poofs at his disposal.
I joined Emilio for a plate of Spaghetti and we spoke to each other about the state of the nation, he was sceptical about some recent Government decisions but felt there was plenty to be positive by and objected to some of the doom and gloom being peddled by the media.
He then politely made his excuses and went into his sty for a shower.
I did not peek.
WARNING
Do not lick a pig. Even if it smells like candy. It is like licking a pork-scratching made from scouring pads.
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| Emilio and his Poofs |
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