Monday, 4 March 2013

Being Jeffrey.

Back from a surprisingly cold walk, courtesy of a brilliantly clear sky again.

(Aside: I’m curious to know why the Plough, or Big Dipper, has not only moved further east since the beginning of the winter, but also rotated through about 90° Orion hasn’t. Maybe that’s why the Plough is also called the Big Dipper. Oh, well.)

So, it was back home to hot coffee and a buttered scone. That’s about as close as I get to epicurean living. I won’t tell you what I had for dinner, since I wouldn’t want anybody to damage themselves either by laughing too hard or falling off the chair. Let’s just say I added cabbage to make it posh.

There was somebody out shooting tonight, somewhere in the vicinity of Church Lane. It didn’t sound like a shotgun, either – more like a .22 rifle or something. Didn’t see any lights, though, which is a bit odd.

I did have one nice thought while I was out. Wouldn’t it be grand to hear my name whispered out of the darkness, somewhere away from any houses? That would be a bit creepy, wouldn’t it? And the tone of whisper would make all the difference – seductive, sinister, ethereal…



The man who died when his bedroom fell into a sinkhole in Florida was called Jeffrey, poor bloke. For falling into the sinkhole, that is, not for being called Jeffrey. Well, both really, I suppose.

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