It’s Wednesday evening, walking night. The rain has been on and off all afternoon and I’m physically and mentally pooped (not because of the rain. It’s been a traumatic day).
My walking buddy phoned me to make the decision as to wether we were going or not. “I dunno. Let’s give it an hour and see what happens.”
What’s happened is that although it’s stopped raining the sky is glowering and just waiting for us to get to the point of no return before piddling down on us from the heavens. I’ve done this enough times in the past to know this. Oh well, I won’t melt if I get wet, will I?
I’m reading a book at the moment, well, you know, not at this exact moment or I wouldn’t be able to chat with you. The book is an absolute bag of poo,written by an ex policeman, the one who was signing his books at Hoghton Tower on Sunday.
I haven’t read a book where the characters start sentences with “Why…” since I last read an Enid Blyton book.
Who the hell these days starts a sentence with, why..?
“Why, the rain is Spain falls mainly on the plain.”
Nah, doesn’t work unless you’re Geordie and in that instance it has to be followed by ‘aye, man’ as in “Why aye man, this brown ale is smashing. Fill yer boots”
I’m sorry Mr ex policeman, you’re not the next JK Rowlings after all. I withdraw my daughter’s betrothal. Try and write without sounding like something out of ‘The Famous Five and everything will be ticketyboo.
Ok. I have to go and change to go walking. Remind me to tell you about today’s traumatic events. Why, I don’t know about going walking, I could really do to have a lie down in a darkened room!