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The Commodore
He is one of my best friends, of longstanding, and equally long falling over, after a good luncheon. Which is to say, he is an English gentleman from the North, and a naval man.

Running a print factory, as he does, is not dissimilar to the work that one of my other best friends does in a gravel pit. Top bird.

Anyway, come Thursday, Cmdre gets a funny look in his eye, and fancies putting a spanner in the machinery, to see what happens. Bored, as only the brilliant can be.

Result was that colourful front copy of leading insurance company's Annual Report went 40 ft up in the air, three men injured, not seriously, due to safety of secret consumption of gin, fire brigade called, factory flooded by their heroic and hosepipe efforts, all back to normal by Monday and huzza! for the steady and stable growth in the British Economy that our government has suddenly taken an interest in.

Plus more good news (huzza!). Commodore moved house this month. He has a top quality wife, but she's a hoarder of stuff. Her gents ordinary husband, the man aforementioned, climbs up into loft, phones your Phillips (chap who knows about money), and he says to me "I've found a box, full of coins" "Excellent," sez I, "They are probably worth something" "What's a Krugerand?" asks the Cmdre of me.

Moral of story, blokes are like cats. Throw them out of a house and they land on their feet x


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