AFTER the language spoken for and against Brexit, the Knutsford street market and the Councils, pray silence for my mate Sid: We have our own language, me and Sid, Wonderland language of look and sound that speaks for itself.

He would meet me at the door, gift in mouth and frantic, It is his war dance: ‘You’ve come to play with me’!

He likes a tug of war with the ball, but also catching it one bounce To my whoop of ‘Nice one Sido’!

Off he would go into the bushes not to appear for a while, He had other things to do.

Then out he would crash with a terrific thrash bringing the ball to me.

I would say ‘drop it’ to his proffered mouth With the ball half in and half out Wanting me to tug the saliva coated mass, ugh!

Only later when he is limping will his pleading work on me, Then I submit willingly ‘Last throw Sido’.

He always grasps my meaning - ‘Time for a rest and a drink don’t you think’ - We have our own language, you see.

Peter Healey Knutsford