Enter The Sage

Imagine for a minute … a salty old seadog with a sou’wester hat, whiskers, eyes scrunched against years of salt water, a ditty box filled with yarns, skin like leather, a grip to rival that of the Ancient Mariner, irascible intolerance of any form of unearned privilege, infinite gruff compassion for the human that moves through mankind, and an unfailing instinct for where you’ve hidden the rum?

This is the guy I share space with. Most of the time he’s out of sight and out of mind, too often he pops up unexpectedly when I’m struggling with some problem or another yet I find his simple wisdom of immense help. Sometimes he’s a bloody pest. I refer to him as The Sage. I know when he’s about by the drift of pipe baccy on the air, but for whatever reason the Spouse can never smell it—which is a mixed blessing because when I haven’t had a wee tincture myself she can sense when he’s been into the rum, and of course it’s always me that gets ‘The Look’.

I guess we all have an albatross around our neck in one form or another, I suppose I should be thankful that he isn’t twins. He’s not here right at the moment which is good, I’d hate for him to read this—I’d never live it down.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s