My office is in Uritsky, right on the border with the private sector. Somewhere there lives a man with a pony who rides children on the Colour Boulevard.
He often hits me in the morning, when he walks to the square, where he usually returns with the onset of darkness. By that time, he is already thoroughly subdued and rides, sitting on a barley pony with his brushes. In his hands he always has a bank of beer, his apparently a check shot in front of the house.
Pony, at the same time, he no longer pursues and does not stumble, he knows the road well and does not rush home. Only occasionally he quietly scratches and then the man slides and something whispers to him in the ear decorated with colorful sticks.
Tolerance is called interpersonal relationships.
In quarantine, the boulevard was closed, there was no one to ride and they were completely missing.
And here, apparently, yesterday allowed, I go down to the car in the evening, I see this man at home on a pony. The same crazy, with an unchanged pot, everything is as it should be.
I don't know why, but I was delighted with him and even greeted him with my hand.
He was not surprised at all, only quietly sneered as a familiar and went on.
Cock-cock to Cock
I think we will go out now, once such urban-forming enterprises have worked out.