There was a ridiculously lengthy walk through the countryside to get to a pub, the name of which escapes me. Three men ploughed through mud, passed close to a young offenders' institute and got re-acquainted after several months apart. The best part wasn't the Guiness, the lager or the way the damp was rising up my jeans. It was a clear winter sky, full of stars, and the inane chat over the Robbie Williams-a-like club act and the oohs and aahs that met the final vote in X-Factor. And all this after dragging two 70-something women around the streets of York. This morning, Steve grilled me sausages and bacon before my return to our market town abode, where a landlord wanting to maximise his land by building a bungalow at the bottom of the garden should have awaited. 'Cept he was four hours late, thus prolonging the cat concealment.
Reading: Martin McDonagh - Plays One. Listening: Eminem - Encore
Here I am, at Steve's, which is some weird fucking country retreat. We have drunk Guiness and Fosters and eaten brie and other assorted cheeses. I opted not to have sex with Steve's new dog, Chip, an attractive brown labrador, so all there was left to do was blog. I think. Life's not making too much sense right now. That might be the large amount of cheese and biscuits.
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