Snitching on Sarah.

M’Lady is getting the treatment today, ain’t she? So here’s the snitch:

I wonder whether she would like me to go and clean her car for her...

I would, you know; I’m like that. If we were at school, I’d carry her bag for her, and give her the apple out of my lunch box, and let her sit on my coat if the grass was wet.

When I was in my teens I walked to the pub one night with a young lady of my acquaintance, and gave her my coat because it was bitterly cold with deep snow on the ground. (And her dad was an Irish bricklayer, which made her a bit special in my eyes.) I regretted the rashness of my action within minutes, but decided it was simply a gentleman’s role in life to sacrifice his own comfort for the sake of doing the right thing. And so I didn’t complain, just shivered and walked faster, and learned to cultivate forethought so as to pre-empt the possibility of a similar situation arising again.

I think those days are gone now, so maybe it would be more politically correct to ask Sarah to come and clean my car the next time it’s dirty.