(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…
Jeffrey
Mmm.
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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