Minion.

We’re off up to Deskford tomorrow for a short holiday; as usual, Mrs TD will be ensconced in the world of patchwork and related crafts while I will be indulging in the more sensible pursuits of cycling and photography.
And as is normal the on day before such events, my time was spent tidying up my affairs so that they can safely look after themselves while we’re away: films for the cinema have been duly checked and delivered to the assistant projectionist along with detailed instructions concerning the refreshment intervals, I’ve made sure that the bees have enough groceries in to last them for ten days and, importantly, there was the annual trimming of the beard.
 
Now accidents happen in the best regulated of circles.
The trimmer I use has a depth gauge to ensure that the various strands of beard are all chewed to approximately the same length but, in order to tidy up some of the more delicate areas it has to be removed. By the time one realises that one has forgotten to replace the item, irreparable damage has been done; thus it is that, for the first time in nearly thirty years, I am beardless. Herself came home from work and noticed that something was not quite as it should be but couldn’t quite put her finger on it; having had the problem explained to her, she was somewhat enraged. For nearly thirty years she has complained about my beard, apparently it is scruffy; now, having seen what it was concealing, I am in serious trouble for cutting it off.
 
So, how does the minion fit into the story? It seems that someone threw it over the garden hedge and the kindly postman put it by the front door where it is sheltered from the weather. Which reminds me, we must get around to painting said door before the winter sets in.