It’s pretty damn cold
tonight – way sub-zero, apparently. And my kitchen is unheated, so every
decision on whether or not to fetch a scotch triggers a battle between the
desire to have a drink and the desire not to walk to the North Pole to get it.
So far, the scotch is winning.
I must remember to ask M’Lady Sal what her favourite music is, and what her
favourite smells are. The significance of favourite smells gets a mention in When the
Waves Call. Not that I associate Sarah with mysterious marine creatures of the Celtic fringes, you understand*, it’s just
that on the odd occasion when we exchange words, they’re usually about me. And
that makes me feel bad.
Off to walk to the North Pole now. I might be gone for some
time.
~ Captain Oates**.
* If you don't understand, read the damn story!
** No need to point out that Captain Oates died at the other end.
* If you don't understand, read the damn story!
** No need to point out that Captain Oates died at the other end.
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