I tell you, that Mr Shiner is a danger to shipping.
Round again today. He was hinting that he wanted a quiet chat alone on "business matters". Well, the Hnaefs own their share in the house, of course, but Mrs Hnaef knew I could be relied on to be fairly hard-headed so left me to it. Hnaef himself, of course, is off "supervising" the harvest. And keeping an eye on the cider jugs, no doubt.
Anyway - back to Shiner. Next thing I know he's protesting undying love and chasing me round the table. Undying love for the land and the money, more like. We're both too old for this kind of thing. Reminded me of that old Wurzels song - "I've got a brand-new combine harvester".
Anyway, I left him in no doubt as to the situation. And he limped off clutching his - ahem - middle parts in a way as best compatible with the old stiff upper lip as he could.
Which leaves me with a couple of thoughts. One from old Reuben Dewy, who saw Shiner limping out and told me that he can be a dangerous enemy. And the other being that Victorian dress isn't best designed for using your knees to good effect, and I may have to hunt out my steel-toe-caps from the boot of the Porsche.