Old man on the front porch, and that old man is me.
Hazel and I live next door to a nosey old fellow.
Nosey, but nice.
For argument's sake, I'll call him 'Wilson'.
He's one of our street allies. And a handy ally at that, as he's occupied the house next door since 1806, and one bad word from him could sully your name around Fremantle for decades.
The Cattleman and Lasso on the other hand have never been in Wilson's good books, because what they fail to understand is that with oldies (as with Grumpies) you need to put in the time.
Anyway, yesterday afternoon as Lasso scooted past Wilson's front fence, head down and hoping not to stir him on her walk home from the local shops, his super sonar solar radar must've been switched on, because he careered out his front door, coughing: "Lasso!"
Lasso pretended not to hear him, but Wilson would not be denied. "Lasso!" he barked with greater intensity.
"Oh, heeellooooo, Wilson," Lasso sang all girly-like, her beady eyes pointed skyward and Bali Reeboks skidding to a stop. "Lovely arvo".
"Yes, yes it is, Lasso, now about this Peter Gabriel."
"Oh," said Lasso, knowing the jig was up. "I hope our little soirees haven't been too-ooo loud. We're ever so popular."
"Look," Wilson replied. "It's not the volume I object to. But, by Christ, that CD's generic. Just once in a while would it kill you to play some music from this millennium?"