EIGHT YEAR OLD BEER-and a letter from home-by Beatrice

With childhood memories of his Uncle Lou, a drunkard chasing him with beets through a church hall, Godfrey made the choice not to imbibe alcohol.  So he reported in all honesty, how bad drinking 8 year old beer from a can can be.

Twas early on in his travels he wrote me  when he always chose the “most remotest track”, and ran out of water on a hottish day in the outback. An old bloke in a Morris Minor dented and gray, came along , his only lift that day. He took Godfrey and pink bike a few hundred yards to his postbox,explaining he no longer drove since his license was took away… He said he had no water but this beer ought to last you to town, don’t slam the car door hard mate, it drags on the ground.

Godfrey waved goodbye and when the dust cleared, regarded the 6 cans of ancient beer. The old bloke reckoned they had been in the car for 8 years. He was terribly thirsty in the heat of midday so he opened a can in a belch of yeast spray, he downed the beer after wiping the rim of the can of dry goo, and the second with a toast to the memory of Uncle Lou.

It tasted like sheep dip smelled, it smelled  like it had been filtered through socks.. a truckie found his suitcase and bike by the road, and Godfrey passed out in the shade of the rocks. He was taken to Hospital in the nearest town, dry heaving the whole way over the side. All his life Godfrey remembered the trip as his worst  ever hitchhiking ride.

After 2 days in hospital Godfrey could keep jelly down, and lived and worked in Dagg-Mile over a year, he was known as the odd young chap who disliked beets, and survived the ordeal of drinking 8 year old beer.

TO GODFREY, FROM BEATRICE- Dear friend your letter came today, in Welsh with stamp stuck upside down, so I knew at a glance that you were well and sound. I also saw in town, Peruvian Clementine, the tart, she was hanging round the bus station by the baggage cart.

In the grocery store, startled me did a thud of breaking glass, a jar of beets fell as I innocently passed. I worried it may have been a bad sign, but as I have your letter in  hand I know that all is fine. Down among the pets I breathe the scent of Grubby’s, soft grey coat, recalling not so long ago they called you “Oddfrey” and me “Goat”. Your Grubby pony is old and wise, he stopped short today on our morning ride, he knew  what I did not, the pond ice to thin for us to cross to the meadow side

Remember us on Christmas Eve? you believed that night the animals could speak, but every year we fell asleep in the hay before we could hear what they might have to say. The Women’s Institute Dinner was held recently in town,  I have my drivers now, I took my Ma and yourMa down.Your Ma won a prize for her pickled beets and knitting, she excused her self and moved to where old Arthur Bosomsworth was sitting!.

Yes its true your Ma is seeing THE GRUNTING GARDEN GNOME, since soon after you and Alice left home..at the dance it was obvious the two wished to be left alone. Think of ponies in deep clover, goats detest rain and snow,be happy and have fun Godfrey, wherever you may go.From Beatrice.


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