The rain had stopped when Hulme-Rothery stepped out into the street; the sun was shining again in that half blustering, half apologetic manner which it affects upon its reappearance after an autumn shower. The pavements glistened cheerfully and the air had a wholesome freshness. Pausing at the corner, he pondered for a moment on life in all its majesty and how sometimes it is the little things that make the difference.
Earlier that day, sitting in his potting shed sipping his post prandial glass of port, one would have said that there sat a man with his soul at rest and not a disturbing thought on his mind.
One would have been in error. My soul was not at rest. It would perhaps be too much to put it that vultures were gnawing at my ample bosom, but I was certainly far from carefree.
Sensitive to atmosphere, I feared Boudica’s reaction should she discover that no-one had enacted the lex sacrificii et Musa sapientum fixa cutis.
Taking the initiative I mentioned that I thought that it was the turn of @Klopptimist to do the deed. A white lie perhaps, but I know in my heart that he’s utterly devoid of all the finer instincts which raise Man above the level of the beasts that perish. So, if anyone should take the blame I cannot think of a more worthy candidate. Let’s face it, his presence at it would lower the tone of a silver ring bookies’ social and outing picnic.
Content with this intelligence, Boudica, and her kommando, the Lowton and District Townswomen’s Guild, departed for manoeuvres on Nevison’s Flash.
Knowing their intended direction of travel, at my behest the Leeds Liverpool canal had been closed and the stop locks applied in anticipation of the ensuing carnage.
Seeing as one might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, I also omitted to inform the Mem that Lawro had predicted a 2-1 win to us.
Hopefully his attempted kiss of death won’t throw a spanner in the works and upset the apple-cart.