When last I visited, I was asked, most winningly, to provide a report on my visit. Well, I can now hear better and enjoyed seeing a lot of nice people — what more can I say? But I feel that this isn’t what you really wanted, and by chance when on a short holiday in Devon this last week by great chance I came across the following, about some peculiar fellow…
I feel I must convey to you,
The tale of poor deaf Mr. Q,
For in his youth he shot too much,
At lion, tigers, bad men and such.
At last he felt this can’t persist,
Too much good gossip he had missed,
He asked his friends what he should do,
And advice flowed to Mr. Q.
“There are good places you could go:
Paris, New York and Tokyo”,
“But from Cambridge they’re all too far!
But fourthly, there is Mr. Carr!”
And so Mr. Q found his way,
To Chesterton one rainy day,
He parked out back, one space was spare,
(A sexy yellow job was there).
Into the foyer our Q came,
Two dishy ladies asked his name,
They gave him coffee, sat him down:
But he just say there with a frown.
They asked him of his health, the rain,
Of Corbyn’s latest – all in vain!
He sat there silent. Though well bred,
Q could not hear a word they said!
He saw some faces on the wall,
They did not look fearsome at all,
Perhaps he would soon hear again,
And in the process not feel pain?
Then he was called to a small room,
Put in a box fit for a broom,
And there he listened to some beeps;
The whole process gave him the creeps!
But once he was out of that cage,
Things quickly went from stage to stage,
An on-screen graph showed what was wrong,
His problem’s end now won’t take long.
With tiny tubes in both his ears,
He heard better than for 10 years!
(His saviour, D, was not at all,
Pictured on the front room’s wall!).
Now he could hear, he talked away,
To both the girls! They made his day,
Hearing him out. But what was worse,
He kept on talking in bad verse.
Now that’s Q’s story told in rhyme; I hope that will suffice this time
If I don’t come in before then – Happy Christmas and a Good New Year!