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I'm afraid you've lost me. You've strode on ahead paying no heed to my gammy suppurating leg. The one that's shorter than the other. The one sprouting from my hips. At the back. I can kick myself in the arse. Which I do to try and catch up with you. Kick, kick, kick. Like a jockey urging on his steed, but I'm in tweed and I'm getting funny looks from the horsey brigade lah-de-dahing around their Land Rovers by the pub. You passed by several minutes ago, nodding acknowledgement to them in your inimitable jaunty manner but secretly loathing their foul hides. I mean, pallets?! Why build a hide out of pallets? Hiding from their whinnying horses and wives.
I call urgently to you but you're deaf to my foaming shouts, which are turning to curses, then to threats and now reach determination to cause your end.... to flare up and be painful, red raw, like bacon slapped on a butcher's counter with all his hair-netted might and fury.
Ere, mate, what's a 400R?
Stumbling along as usual....
Graham
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