When the Phone Rings in mid-Anglia

- with thanks and apologies to

Maurice Woods, writer of 'Harbert's News from Dumpton' -

I war sittin' moindin' moi own bisness the other day, hevin'a squint at tha local pearper, when tha phoan went.  Tha woife, she come in all of a lather; she say, "Thass ow Ron Collier.  He want a ward along o' yew."  Now Ron, hi's the editer o' tha pearper what I war a-readin'.  I thawt, whass he got second soight?  "Harbert", he say, "I want yew ter wroite a bit fer tha pearper.  I know yew're suffin ter dew wi' tha learber ..."  I thawt, whass that gotter dew wi' yew? but I din't say nothin an' he went on, "I want you ter wroite a bit abowt tha 'leckshun."

Now, I're writ bits afore fer tha pearper, but nothin' topical-loike, so thet war a bit of a shock.  Afore I gotta chance ter say anythin', he war gorn on agin,  "Moind yew, I doant want nunner yar perlitickal squit.  Jis be informative, fer a chearnge."  Now, I reckon O'm allers informative, but I let that pass, an' all, an' sed O'd dew what I could.

Then I thawt, suffin' 'bowt tha 'leckshun, but nothin' perlitickal ... that sorta cut down what I ken put, dew he i'nt a-gornter print 't.  Thear's nothin much chearnged fr'm tha last toime.  I mean, Lord Twinkle got in agin, loike he allers dew.  We call him lord, but he in't a proper lord y'know.  But he allers act loike he is.  I war there at the cownt, arter all the voatin wor dun, an' he war there as yewshul, along o' 'is woife.  She allers cock har hid back'ards, an' look down har noase as if suffin' nasty ha just crawled underneath 't.  I hint never sin har smoile as long as I're known 'em.  I spoose she must ha' twinkled wunce, dew he woon't ha' marrid har, but yew never see no twinkle about 'r now.

Yew dew see s'm rum soights at tha 'leckshun, thow.  I war settin' owtsoide, loike I allers dew - tellin', thay call't, Oi dunnow whoy - so I're sin 't all down tha years.  Wun ow woman come in, she say, "Ken I bring moi dawg in here?  I doan't wanta leave him owtsoide, dew hi'll cetch cowd.  Thass roight parkey owt there terday."  Then this yung cupple come in, hin't bin marrid long, Oi doan't think.  Little Flossie Kemp, as were.  Oi dunnow whar she got him from, but hi's half as hoigh agin as what she is.  A long streak of nuthin, if ever tha war.  Oi dunnow what he dew fer a livin', noither.  He look as gormless as Oi dunnow what.

Anyway, thay come in, thinkin' more abowt each uther than what thay wore a-dewin' on, an' nearly tripped over tha dawg.  Coos, Missus thing warn't lookin' arter him noither, what wi' puttin har crorse aginst wun o' tha nearmes on tha pearper.  Flossie say ter har man, "Oi doan't know hooter voate for, now O' come here!"  An' that din't look as thow har man war gornta be much help noither.  Anyway, thay got tharsilves untangled fr'm tha dawg an' did thar bizness, an' thay skipped orf loike a cupple o' lambs owt fer a frolick on tha medder, smoilin' an' larfin' wunce the'd dun thar civic dewty.

Now all that voats ha' bin cownted, that doan't look loike tha'll be much chearge at tha top, noither.  We're still got a guvunment what doan't hev a clew whass gorn on at grarss roots, so Oi doan't reckon wi'll be much better orf than we war afore.

Loife's allers a struggle, in't 't?