Tools live in a Tool shed, don't they?

These are some of the Garden Fairy’s tools. They have a secret. They should live in the little tool shed, note the name, Tool Shed, that we installed in a dark corner of the garden. Out of the way, locked away, out of the way. However the GF has a plan to let a few out every now and then, just to give them an airing and see what they are missing. This annoys me; use it, put it away, tidily. Here they are just a nuisance and prevent access to the plants. Morse agrees with me, "They are dangerous and harbour mice."

When we lived on the seafront at Sliema there were four Marines in the block of flats, plus a Gunner. In the flat below us was a chap who was not the brightest spark, he also had a slight speech impediment, but was really fun to be around. When his son was born at Mtarfa hospital we were all full of bonhomie and Cisk lager. Fortunately Elaine accompanied him to the Registrar’s office in Valletta.
“Name of child?”
“Maffoo.” Elaine immediately stopped the clerk, “He means Matthew!” If she had not interrupted the poor man would have been Mafoo to this day. 

Across the road was the Preston Bar. This was Louisiana on steroids. The Libyan oilfields were an hour away by aeroplane, then hours away by truck. Running the operations was not a task entrusted to a bunch of Mu’ammar Al-Qadhdhafi’s finest. American knowledge and skills enabled the country to profit from ancient forests, now liquid gold beneath the mud huts of the desert dwellers. The Americans worked hard and drank harder, once released from the confines of Libya’s no alcohol regulations. 

On a Sunday my bezzy mate Fred, who lived in flat 1 would ring the security bell of Flat 8 and ask if Rob might be allowed out to play. We would skip over to the Preston Bar, with Fred’s 18 month old son Richard, on his shoulders. Brilliant Mediterranean sunlight was replaced by stygian gloom and the husky tones of Slim Whitman. The bar was lined with weathered cowboys, nursing beers and bombs, in the guise of large Jack Daniels. We really could be in any cowboy bar in the US, it was pleasantly cool, quiet and neighbourly. Our presence was initially tolerated until we became something of a fixture and made friends. 

Now I must ask you to box up any PC feelings you have, shut-off your lack of prejudice and remember we were in a different era and a very different world. Libya had become a viable threat to British interests in Malta, Dom Mintoff and his hard left allies had already kicked the British off the islands once; Libya was slowly but obviously infiltrating the population, there were bunches of them everywhere. 

One Sunday, while we were at prayer in the Preston bar, the door opened and a couple of robed Libyans entered. At this point play the music of Ennio Morricone in your head, above the silence that ensued. A whole bunch of happy cowboys became a dangerous, murderous pride of lions. One slid off his stool, followed by another. 
“This is a bar, our bar, go away (literal translation)!”
“I am wanting a coca-cola.”
At which point they were both picked up by the neck and seat, before being hurled into the street. 
That was when Fred spoke up, “Hey look, Batman and Robin can fly!”
Oh happy days, we will probably never see their like again, unless of course Greta Thunberg tries to shut down production of Guinness. OK turn your PC minds back on.

A thought for today. Enya is silence coloured in.