It was early. Ish. For me. It was quite late of a morning but I don’t do mornings so it was practically predawn for me, is what I’m saying. My brain and I were rapping bout stuff to be done today like bringing in the laundry from the line at some stage, eating foodstuffs at some stage, being in bed doing fuck all at every other stage of the livelong day.
And then, all of a crikey, pingapongle goes my phone equipment thing and it’s my friend Si saying he’s on his way to Fingle Bridge and did I want to come meet him there soonish. Hmm, said my brain, but all that fuck all that needs doing would have to wait until later. Pish, said I, arguing with my brain not for the first time.
And so I drove to Fingle Bridge, which sounds Irish but isn’t – Dartmoor in case you can’t be bothered to Google it – and is beautiful. Like countryside middle of nowhere, plenty of good secluded places to hide the bodies and not have to worry too much about bloodstains beautiful. Er, I mean…um…I don’t mean anything. Forget the bodies thing. I haven’t murdered a vicar in ages.
The sun was hot of sunshine. The birds were sing of singsong. The bridge was all Fingly. It was nice and you should try it some time. And then maybe come home to your own town or city, like what I done did afterwards, and stroll about like you own the place because you are now the king of countryside. Or queen. Or Jodie Whittaker.
And now begins the fuck all.