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Certainly there was clearly pride in being who owns their own shop - and just as certainly, he enjoyed being his very own the employer of your couple of less-qualified meatworkers. And there will be an assumption within the minds of countless of his customers and neighbours that Life was sweet for him - even you could say, 'living on easy street' - really lucky!

But, needless to say, the opinions of these onlookers were formed with the daytime vision of my Dad, their cheerful Butcher, exchanging pleasantries, jokes and general conversation about Life, why not a little local gossip, and obviously, advice and recommendations about the all-important meat to the evening meal, while he served them the freshest and choicest cuts. They never saw the after-hours routine, or gave thought to the way all evolved into the well-stocked shop, attractively displaying the the work involved to provide the impression of ease and efficiency in attempting to meet their their wishes. Behind the scenes, there were all of the morning hours meat preparation for your day ahead - dissecting whole bodies of meat, boning out, dissecting ever further into 'familiar' and recognizable cuts of meat. And of course, there are times during the strike action by various sectors of the meat industry. I can remember my Dad donning the split hessian sack 'hoodie' (for protection from blood/fat residue on hair, face and shoulders), along with his men helping, unloading the split bodies of beef and whole bodies of pork and lamb, in the event the delivery truck came with simply a strong 'handlers'. There were innumerable 'cleaning up' jobs at the end from the yet, somehow, he'd always manage to squeeze in certain time for the brief take a seat for evening meal together, and also to share some precious 'family' time. Then, whilst my older siblings had homework for carrying on, came my favourite time of the day - perched on cushions on the chair beside my Dad, counting the bucks which was the afternoon's takings. I think...I small but earnest presence helped 'lighten up' an otherwise onerous job for my Dad. Certainly we laughed and chatted a lot (well, I certainly contributed a heap for the latter?) - as I carefully counted the coins and set them into piles.

https://app.box.com/s/pkm9xffya6zv0abukznm329ol3jpongl started while using copper half-pennies and pennies; then this silver threepences, sixpences, shillings and florins (worth two shillings). All were put in small towers of certain numbers to provide up to make the whole counting process easier for my Dad. He not simply had the work of then 'bagging' in the different denominations ready for banking, but additionally recording all in his Cash book. We loved this time around together until my bedtime. Funny how things develop - my Dad was sure I would someday pursue work involving numbers - accountancy maybe, or banking. And yet

http://ge.tt/4UkkNO73/v/0 was raised to get unequivocally a wordsmith - able to good numeracy skills - but no adoration for numbers. I am seen to say often that 'numbers just don't sing'. I do know I was fascinated and awed by my Dad's handwriting prowess. The most beautiful script, complete with 'light upward strokes - and firm downward strokes' - whether they were executed in pencil or fountain pen. Maybe

https://www.4shared.com/office/8CkS86Rsiq/Choosing_a_BBQ__Which_A_person... 'fathered' my love of words and writing - I only know I love them in all varieties; in all of the forms; and my appreciation of beautiful handwriting has never waned. In my memory, I see pretty much everything happening at the huge and impressive piece of furniture during my Dad's office - his roll-top desk, full of loads of dividers; compartments; small 'secret' and obvious drawers - all encompassed inside the upper section underneath the magical 'rollover' lockable top. If I close my eyes, I can not simply picture it, but hear its 'delicious' soft clicking as it rolled, and 'dang' mainly because it locked in to its brass fitting. Below this marvelous roller were two teams of drawers with an open space between - for knees and legs to fit comfortably between, needless to say. I wonder how involved a Butcher's youngsters are in the 'after-hours' world and the office work today? If he's a supermarket Butcher - then certainly not. he or she is a Master Butcher...I wonder? A� 2011 Christine Larsen All Rights Reserved Worldwide

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by Dr. Radut.