Marchlands

Knock, knock.

“Come in, dearie, there’s a coney stew on the fire for a hungry traveller,” croaks the old bint.

The door creaks; a waft of stew and smoke, of damn timbers and urine greets your questing nostrils.

Inside the cabin, the old woman stirs the stew pot, her ropey arms turning slow circles beneath a tattered old shawl.

You enter and sit. She turns, peers at you shrewdly.

“Take your boots of, you great big tart,” she orders.

You cannot; they are nailed to your feet. You struggle with them, hopping around, only to fall into the firepit and be scalded to death by coney stew.

The last thing you see is a boiling hot carrot lancing into your face.

 

In other words, it’s March. I’m on holiday for a week, but busy with various things:

1. Nan’s Birthday. Looking forward to seeing Nan. Shame she’s in a home instead of her own home, but needs must. She’s also hard as nails.

2. Seven year anniversary of me and Becki togetherorisity. Holy steam cotton! Where to go, what to do? Peak District, mayhaps?

3. Try to remember when my car insurance is up and not fail to sort that out.

4. As much writing as I can handle. Chiefly, organising my shorts (ho ho) into a compilation. Editing, editing, editing, and possibly writing one new one.
So I’m going to be busy. Still, it’s well sunny. Good times. Annoyingly I have a cold and sore throat and some kind of jaw pain, but they are passing.

I also weighed myself today and hadn’t lost any for the first time since January the 1st. A quirk of daily weight fluctuation, or a marker of the point where I have to work much harder to lose weight?

I suppose I’ll find out next week.

Peace be with you all.

Bearded, wordsmith the.