In my mother's youth, 200 yards from her mother's house in a little town in Darkest Jutland, there was a chap who grew the lushest strawberries you have ever seen. In season, on market day, he would load up his hand cart with boxes and boxes of these lovely berries and take them off by train to the market town some twenty miles away, as he did with other produce in its season. His goods sold at a brisk pace. To my mother's annoyance and chagrin she was never permitted to have any.
Jack also had a steady, year round job in town emptying the “honey pots” that were then a standard appurtenance to every moderately well-to-do-house, flush-toilets being only for the rich. The night soil was, of course, put to good use in Jack's garden.
Going his appointed rounds through town day after day pushing the laden cart was no doubt a trial for the man, and he fortified himself by means of bottles of the local “burnt wine” (akvavit – form of vodka - “screech” if you speak Newfie) stashed within suitable out-houses here and there.
As an evil fortune would have it, the vicar, having come into an inheritance, had a flush-toilet installed in his house, and when the one-holer was torn down, a bottle was discovered. The vicar's wife, driven by true Christian charity, made it known to all the matrons in town that Jack was a boozer. Emotion and umbrage ran high. Social position had to be protected. Jack lost
a great number of his “contracts”.
Jack fell on hard times, became embittered, hit the bottle for solace rather than for fortification and lost
his house and garden for want of income
. But the matrons, smuggly, held the high moral ground in the sure and certain knowledge that the Lord would reward them for their righteousness.
Granny, I'm pleased to be able to report, was not among that lot!