My First Colouring Book Read Online Free Page B

haggis, consumed traditionally by rushlight to the wail of the Welsh shepherds’ brochbib , a crude bagpipe, and the crwth , a primitive fiddle. When he arrived he was still dressed in the traditional garb – a sheepskin jerkin over wide black pantaloons, and I must admit it was I who ordered his wide-brimmed leather hat and puttees to be destroyed immediately, such was their appalling hogo. Thankfully he forgave me, eventually, but I mustn’t rush into the story.
    These people are hardy, and Gwynoro was young and fit, but he almost perished. During the operation he needed ten pints of blood, imported from Mexico as it happens, and this has a bearing on my tale because, about a month after he was discharged, Gwynoro started to behave in an unusual and intriguing fashion. I have to admit that I indulged him rather because he was such a charming and engaging character, unspoilt by the tricks and wiles of modern society. He kept us all in stitches with his simple, earthy humour and held us spellbound with the lore of his people, plus a thousand and one things we didn’t know about the crafty and intelligent sheep he so adored (but only his own flock). Anyway, about a month after being sent home to the hills he returned, and the change was striking. Gone were the sheepskin jacket and hairy pantaloons; he arrived sporting a full Zapata moustache under a flamboyant sombrero, and he was clad in the wide breeches of the gaucho, complemented superbly by a pair of new Cuban-heeled cowboy boots (the leatherwork was breathtaking). I found him slumped in the corridor, with his hat over his eyes, and presumed he was having a siesta – but when I shook him it became clear he was in enormous pain, as if he’d taken a bullet from a gringo. He was back to see me because of a fresh digestive problem – he’d developed an addiction to chili con carne, and his guts were rotten again: even worse, he’d lost all interest in sheep, and had bought a herd of small and scrawny mules. Frankly, he’d been diddled and I was angry on his behalf. He was a sick man again, and I was mystified. What had caused this change in his behaviour? I consulted my colleagues, more experienced than I, and we formulated a theory. Of course, we all knew about cellular memory, whereby people who receive organ transplants often take on the memories, behaviour and habits of the donors. But not one of us had heard of cellular memory brought on by blood transfusions. Gwynoro was unique – and in making medical history he became a cause celebre in medical circles.
    After his recovery we persuaded him to part with his mules, which we’d kept in a fenced-off part of the hospital grounds, near the psychiatric unit (an unfortunate choice, for reasons I cannot make public); they were sold to a former Welsh professor who did rides on Aberystwyth beach. While visiting them, Gwynoro promptly fell in love with the town and gate-crashed some of the history lectures at the university, where he learned all he wanted to know about Mexico’s revolutionary history, and there’s plenty of that.
    This is a very interesting period in my life, amigo, he said to me one day, picking his teeth moodily with a cocktail stick. I’d been called into town to bail him out after an incident in the High Street late the previous night, when he’d fired shots into the air while shouting Viva la Revolución in the manner of a crazed pistolero . Fortunately for him he’d been firing blanks, otherwise he’d be behind bars to this day.
    Something had to be done, and quickly. I set up a trust fund and, medics being a kindly lot on the whole, we soon had enough money to buy him a set of ornamental spurs and a plane ticket to Mexico, where we hoped he’d burn himself out and then resume his old life in the Welsh hills. Or maybe he’d make a go of it, establish a new colony perhaps, like a distant relative of mine, John Hughes, who left