Now when I say ‘sleep’ with him, I hope you understand, it wasn’t that Redford was asking her to join him in the bed for a big night of snoring. He wasn’t after putting down a hard day in the bog, fit for nothing more than to cock his toes to the sky.
Without wanting to be crude, ‘twas a night of canooding Redford had in mind, with little by way of sleep planned or envisioned.
Anyhow, at this remove, I cannot recall whether she took the randy old devil up on his offer, or if she told him where he could stuff his one million dollars.
The only point I want to make is that Moore herself was once in hot demand.
She was a bit like an old three-acre field of mine, that was once the belle of the ball.
Located behind the house, the field had been in hot demand for the past number of years. This field was surplus to my own requirements, and farmers anxious for a bit of extra silage would bombard me with calls, sometimes late in the night, trying desperately to secure the ground for a cut of silage.
Especially in those years when fodder was scarce, they would arrive at my door like Robert Redford himself, with pockets bulging.
And the farmers were no fools either, because they knew my field, just like Demi Moore, was something special.
Reseeded way back in my grandfather’s time, it would be what the experts in Moorepark might class as a fine, mature meadow, with all sorts of things growing in it.
The field was perfection entirely, apart from one or two minor faults. There was a little outcrop of rock someplace in the middle, that many contractors’ mowers sparked off.
Down through the years, I would often hear a silage contractor, new to the area, use colourful language when describing that particular rock. It certainly gave the field character.
And of course, down in the corner where the old dung spreader is dumped, the ground does tend to be a little soft, even in the driest of summers.
But these little defects aside, it is one hell of a field. And provided I kept my cattle and sheep out of it, there were very few farmers who’d take the field for the summer and who would lose the head with me afterwards.
It was because of the popularly of my field that I found on many occasions my pocket would have a lovely jingle to it. That three-acre field was responsible for providing me with many a merry night over the past three summers. Oh, how I cherished my little three-acre field, when I would stare lovingly into my pint of stout, bought on the strength of it.
But alas, this year all has changed. On account of the fine summer and bumper silage crops everywhere, my field has been given the cold shoulder. Farmers are fussy this year, with nobody at all interested in taking a gamble on my three-acre field with its rocky outcrop and swamp down below.
So is it any wonder that I sit here with tears in my eyes? My pockets sadly devoid of a jingle, my throat dry from the want of lubrication.
My field, the beauty that once shone like Demi Moore in ‘Indecent Proposal’, has this summer been left without a proposal of any kind.