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or crossed swords at all. In fact beloved and I were, I thought, happily in tune with one another, one of those rare moments of marital bliss.
    Driving through the country side with England at its best, when suddenly the most all mighty and horrendous smell of rotting manure filled the car. It was eye-watering and breathing almost stopped. After a few seconds ‘beloved’ turned to me, and without a flicker of humour on her face, said ‘Have you brushed your teeth today?’
    That’s my Dragon for you…ever a kindly soul… as gentle as a chain saw!

THE ULTIMATE SACRIFICE
    And so it came to pass, after a goodly number of years she said, she had done her share of family planning arrangement, and from now on it was over to me. To keep a natural and enjoyable love life a little snip was needed. Said quickly it seems nothing, but they were giving radios away in India just to encourage this sort of thing. Here in the U.K. no man could do more on the altar of love. This is the big test, the cruelest cut.
    So off I went to see our Doc, who recommended a fellow doctor as the master of the snip in our locality. An appointment was arranged for the early Friday evening, so that I wouldn’t miss any work on the Monday.
    On Black Friday (evening) I was there, ready and aware of the basics, the operation is one done under a local anaesthetic and is really minor surgery. You can watch if you like the Doc said…. testing me out. Being the man that I am, I said that would be interesting. So he produced a mirror for me to hold up and watch his handy work in action.
    A nurse, the female sort, was in attendance so I had to be brave. The worst bit was the big needle to numb the parts, in exactly the area you definitely don’t want any needle to go anywhere near. Still ever the brave man, there followed fifteen minutes or so, lying on the table, without trousers, making polite small talk to nurse and Doc, accompanied by sharp prods to see if the tender bits are sufficiently numbed.
    I watched each and every step of the mutilation! As a very young boy I had often watched my father, a veterinary surgeon, perform many operations in his surgery. From spaying cats to removing tumours from dogs. So blood, gore, forceps, swabs, suture needles, clamps and waste bins over flowing with gory bits and pieces, blood-soaked cotton wool, etc…were nothing new – so it was now… I felt the actual ‘snip’ like nipping through small plastic tubes. Irreversible, permanent disfigurement, another token in a life of self-sacrifice.
    I drove home afterwards, like a surviving Roman gladiator, excused washing up or heavy lifting, I arranged myself carefully in my Parker Knoll reclining chair. The craftsmanship of the good doctor was nearly ruined by Katy, our younger daughter, going to bounce on to me in her usual fashion. We used to share this chair to watch Sesame Street and the Muppets on Saturday mornings. Luckily I didn’t have to go into detail of why Dad was feeling a little fragile at that moment.

TRIALS & TRIBULATIONS
    Quite how I survived these attacks, I can only put down to my upbringing, which must have trained me and toughened me to endure the many put-downs and verbal kickings of life, usually to counter the Queen of the Mays’ evil outbursts.
    An example of this training was the duffle coat – all the world and especially every boy at my school had one. A camel coloured, toggle fastened, hooded duffle coat. A most practical, and well-designed piece of clothing. Of course, I wanted to join the wearers of the duffle coat brigade, but when my mother and I toured the shops, seeking out a reasonably priced one, I couldn’t help but notice the way my mother winced at the price, it was almost physical torture for her.
    She counted the pennies, after years of rationing, war-time shortages had created ‘make and do thinking’. Plus the struggle, of my father buying the veterinary