Oh boy am I tired? That's a rhetorical question the rhetoric of which is designed to teach you that, yes, I am tired. I'm really so tired. So I needs to come here and write this now because I'm going to pass out in about seven minutes and I need to do this first. I'm in a cottage in the countryside with Fran and the dog. We've had fish and chips, wrapped in real newspaper -- good to know print is still useful for something -- and Mission has pooed by the side of the road, which poo Fran had to pick up with the newspaper from her mushy peas pot because she'd forgotten to come out with any bags, which process of picking up the poo with the newspaper was overseen by all the noteworthy folk of the village, who were sat out front of the local pub discussing village matters and drinking Strongbow cider and plotting nefarious schemes. They're always plotting nefarious schemes, right, the villagers? Old Tom from the Post Office, and Debbie who won best turnip at last year's school fete, and Father Tunbridge -- he of the neat little smile and the too-clear eyes and the immaculate yet waxen skin. What are you up to, Father Tunbridge?
Well anyway they all watched Fran pick up poo in a newspaper, and then amiably pointed out the nearest bin and we all chuckled, and I said, "We'd better not get that mixed up with the mushy peas," and they laughed again, and waved us on. But underneath, I know what they were thinking underneath, telepathically, towards Father Tunbridge, sitting unmoving at the centre of his invisible web. They were thinking: "Prepare the antechamber, call forth the disciples, for this weekend the ritual shall begin anew."
Meh, as long as I find somewhere tomorrow to buy some decent coffee, they can do what they want with my eternal soul. Not like I was using it anyway.
Bye!
P.S. It's very nice here.
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