An aged birder finally clocks off after over 60 years of running himself into the ground, enduring countless arguments and driving himself and others into despair.
At the clearing house where he awaits the final decision on whether it's upstairs or downstairs he's open minded about the outcome having not only trod on a Jack Snipe but a few bird recorders toes and egos also, he hears a conversation thus.
"Satan you may want this one either as foreman in the furnace or networks support depending on your mood"
"Be with you in a tick Peter, I'm just designating this councillor as sewage works clerk"
"Right Pete my lad, what do we have here begob and begorrah"
After a few minutes of reading the newly arrived's CV the cloven hoofed one practically blows a horn with steam and hot coals flying from his ears.
"Holy Beezlebubs Mother in Laws tongues (sic) Peter, this poor sod has been a birder for 60 years and you expect me to accept him in Hades?. The Hell I will, he's suffered far too much already, you keep him" 😱 👿
