Cold Comfort Farm Page #6

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You can prevent it. All you need's a little

rubber bowler hat to stop it happening again.

- The doctor can show you.

- What would I look like in a rubber bowler hat?

- You wear it inside, Meriam.

- Oh, no, mum. 'Tis fyin' against nature, that is.

Nonsense. Nature's

all very well in her place,

but she mustn't be allowed

to make things untidy.

Now remember, Meriam, no more

sukebind and summer evenings...

without a few preparations beforehand.

If you'll wash my bedroom

curtains for me, I'll pay you.

That can go towards buying whatever

it is your children have to eat.

Mornin', miss.

Hello, Mother. She wants me

to wash her bedroom curtains.

Who's "she"? The cat's mother?

You speak proper to the young lady.

Never thought I'd hear anyone

wanting washing done at Cold Comfort.

She'll wash 'em for

you, miss. Oh, how is he?

Fine.

They always does.

Well, you needn't sound as

if you wish they wouldn't.

Lord knows, none of'em was very

welcome, poor little innocents.

Still, now they're here, we might

as well look after 'em right.

Come another four years,

I'll start makin' use of'em.

How?

Train the four of'em up

for one of them jazz bands.

They get six pound a night

playin' up west in the nightclubs.

That's why we got to look

after 'em right. Yeah.

He's gonna be a trombone

player. Look at his mouth.

A telegram, madam.

Ooh, it must be

from Flora.

Oh, do read it,

Sneller.

"Worst fears realized.

Seth and Reuben too.

Everything needs changing.

Send magazines. "

Morning.

Morning.

Not so bad now, eh?

No.

Lunches, dear?

We do, but only in August.

Not always then. You can

have what we're havin'.

Got to cook my gentleman's dinner. Oh!

Oh, no, my dear. That's Mr.

Hawk-Monitor from up the Hall.

He's a real gentleman.

He don't eat here.

My gentleman's a Mr. Mybug

from London. He's a book writer.

Oh, not another.

There he is now.

Walks the High Weald all hours, he

does. Then comes in covered in mud.

[ Humming ]

Good day, all. Nice walk, Mr. Mybug?

I have freely wandered the ample

suckling breasts of the welcoming hills.

A pint of cider, if

you would, Mrs. Murther.

Ayoung lady

askin' after you.

Ha! Flora Poste,

isn't it?

May I sit down? We met at

the Polswetts in October.

Did we, Mr. Mybug?

Meyerburg. Don't you remember?

Harriet Belmont sat naked on the

grass and played to us on her fute.

Actually, the Polswetts said you were down

here. I rather hoped I would run into you.

Better go up and dry off,

hadn't you, Mr. Mybug?

Yes, yes. Dear me, I do seem somewhat

soaked in nature's fecund blessing.

I shall see you in a very few

moments, my dear Miss Poste.

But let me warn you.

I'm a queer, moody brute,

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