A Conversation with the Audience.

The day that’s gone was a Wednesday, JJ. You go to Ashbourne on a Wednesday, don’t you? And you know how avidly we follow the soap opera that is Ashbourne, don’t you?

You do?

We do. ’Tis thirsting we are, thirsting for the latest instalment. So take the best seat by the fire, the one reserved for the storyteller, and tell us a story.

About Ashbourne?

About Ashbourne.

Nothing much happened, I’m afraid.

A small repast is better than an empty belly.

Is it?

It is.

Oh, right. Let me see… erm… I bought a really good shirt at a ridiculously low price.

Fortuitous.

Indeed. And then I went into the library and explained to James why I thought the book he’d recommended wasn’t very good. I’m getting quite good at explaining why I don’t think a book is very good.

Erudite.

Think so?

Yes.

Erm… erm… Oh, yes. Remember the tadpole I mentioned back in the summer?

Yes.

Well, I saw him again today and he hadn’t turned into a frog at all. He’d grown into a rather fine Staffordshire Bull Terrier.

Predictable.

Quite. And I suppose that’s why the queue of hopeful princesses had disbursed.

Tangential whimsy.

That’s a bit of a mouthful.

Can you think of a better term?

Silly?

That too.

Well, that’s about it, I’m afraid. No, wait. There was one more thing. There was a board outside the library relating the history of Ashbourne through the ages, and during the Napoleonic Wars, three French officers who had been billeted on the town married three barmaids from a local pub. And do you know what it was called?

Do tell.

The Cock Inn.

That’s funny.

I know.

Congratulations. Have a scotch.

Thank you.