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.


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