The night walk is no longer just a pleasure, you see; it’s become something akin to a duty. I’m practicing for when I acquire the status of ghost, and Mill Lane becomes my haunting ground. I want doting mothers to warn their children against the perils of being alone after nightfall on the lonely stretch of lane that runs from the pub to the old railway station.
‘They do say as it wears a woolly ’at and tattered clothes as be a-fallin’ apart at the seams, and carries a little blue light that swings back and forth as it walks. And no one ever sees it leave Lid Lane, and no one ever sees it reach Green Lane, so if it be a nat’ral thing, where do it come from, where do it go? And there be them as say it sometimes sings strange songs in a low and mournful voice, be the weather fair or foul, the wind mellow or bitter, the sky starry or mist laden. But of course, these be the ramblings of mad people, because no one that has ever seen it has stayed sane for a single day henceforward.’
Meanwhile, my kitchen is sweltering in the heady heights of 5°C (41°F,) which makes it officially a fridge again. More good practice.