Posted Saturday March 19
Everyone knows Will the Warbler. Last Saturday, as usual, he went to the street market and stood between Martha’s muffin stall and Slippery Sid’s stack of fake phones. He unstrapped a battered loudspeaker and cassette player from his wonky trolley. Up went his music stand, down went his upturned top hat. Then, having removed and carefully folded his baggy beige raincoat he stood resplendent in his immaculate evening suit, complete with a crisp white shirt, a bow tie and shiny shoes. After grabbing his microphone, he gave his sound system a sharp kick and it crackled into life. He was ready to entertain his expectant audience; well, the two elderly ladies who stopped to listen. He cleared his throat and the two elderly ladies tottered off.
‘Come fly with me, let’s fly.....’
Bang on cue, a gust of wind grabbed his sheet music and it flew upwards into the leafless branches of the tired old tree in the market square. Unperturbed he decided to sing an appropriate song.
‘Pack up all my care and woe, here I go, singing low, bye bye blackbird’.
To Will’s surprise, a slick of well-aimed bird-poo splattered onto his shoulder.
‘And-a now, the end is near and so I face.....’
The loudspeaker let out a deafening pop and died.
Pete the Pint stood in the open doorway of the Old Oak Inn across the street, a broad grin spread across his chubby red face.
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