I took a few days to recover from my ordeal. Brahms showed little sympathy for my plight; he was preoccupied with his Boxing Day solo. His singing teacher said his voice should have complete rest and he should not open his mouth for two days, otherwise he might get warts on his larynx. 'Impossible,' whispered Brahms.
'There's no alternative - if you want to sing at all,' came the reply.
Brahms went very still gave me a long, hard stare and with no warning, flew at me, knocked me over and pinned me down in a half Nelson. 'I'm fed up with you, Bartok Beagle!' he croaked, 'this is all your fault. You never think of anyone but yourself - and you never consider the consequences of your actions on others! This isn't the first time you've put us through the mangle - and you seem to think it's funny!'
I was taken aback. I've never seen him so angry - neither could I see that a few croaks here and there would be a problem. 'That's exactly it!' Hissed Brahms, 'You can't see that anything could be a problem for anyone else! I don't get in the way of your rootling, but you've got in the way of my singing and now, because of you, I can't!'
'Off!' commanded Auntie Gill and pulled Brahms away. He was overwrought and quivering with temper.
'I'm very sorry, Brahms. I didn't realise,' I said.
'That's just it - you never do! Don't come near me! I don't want to see you!' And he slunk off to the kitchen.
'That's not like Brahms,' commented Auntie Gill. 'I wonder what's the matter?'
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