I was walking through the woods this week and I saw a man doing something in the undergrowth. Norman ran to investigate this strange happening.
So I shouted for him
‘Norman.’
The man looked round. Notice, it was the man who looked round and not Norman.
‘NORMAN, come here.’
The man looked again and took a step towards me.
When Norman ignores me (which is often), I have to resort to my stern tone with a bit of abuse thrown in, the abuse is just for my own amusement.
‘NORMAN, YOU IDIOT, come here.’
The man started to look displeased.
‘NORMAN, YOU BIG FATTY, COME ON.’
And then I recognised him, it was Mr Sweeney, my daughter’s old primary school teacher, he was setting up a school camp in the woods.
And then I remembered his first name, and I think you know what it is.
I will not bore you with the details of my groveling explanation as to why he thought I was calling him a fat idiot, suffice it to say, I went into crawly bum-lick mode and took myself off to see the headmistress.
Having a dog called Norman, this incident was bound to have happened at some point, so at least I’ve got it over with.