I don’t do change well. In even the small things. Like if Mrs P changed the bedspread on the king-size divan, I’d ask her what did she do that for? You’d swear she’d hopped into the bed with the milkman which, I can’t stress enough, is extremely unlikely. In fact, the bearing on the rotating earth’s axis in the South Pole will fail first.
Or, equally, if a good Friesian store bullock (with an arse like an elephant) arrived back to the yard from Delvin Mart, instead of a continental, I couldn’t cope. I’d be on the blower to John Spaight and the fuss would be so great you’d swear he’d just dropped a lorry-load of in-calf Holstein cows in the yard.