The day started off with gale-force winds that were strong enough to demolish trees that had been standing since Henry the Eighth looked at Anne Boleyn and said, "Say what you like, she's got a nice, slim neck". It howled and blew, so my pigeons were kept in the loft. If they had been let out, we'd never have seen half of them again. And all that is without mentioning the rain and flooding - so I won't mention that.
Anyway, I got out of the gate on time, just after nine, and collected my mobile from my locker. I rang Herman the Big Plum.
"I'll ring you back in thirty seconds!", said he - and turned his phone off.
I just sat in the porta-cabin and admired the way the trees and the flag blew about the place.
It seems that the police had blocked off the road for some obscure reason (probably the weather) so he, Herman, had been sent on a bit of a detour by a kindly policewoman and would be ten minutes late. Some people think (unkindly probably) that being late should be a permanent state for me, and probably for him too - late as in "May the good Lord keep him".
"Where we going?" said he, when I finally got in the car.
"Who's driving?" I replied.
"Bollocks," said he politely. "We'll go for breakfast, I'm starving."
This from a man who has never missed a meal in his life. So, into town and we got to the bistro about ten minutes to ten - early. However, she let us in and fed us tea while she got the chef out of bed and pretty soon we were munching away with smiles of contentment. Very nice.
After we were evicted he asked, "Now where?"
"Skegness," said I.
Said he, "What do you want to go there for?"
Said I, "What are you - a policeman?"
Off we went and, by the time we got there, he was hungry again. See! Never missed a meal in his life.
I've got to say this - it wasn't worth the drive, or the price. We had three courses and it was all microwaved, as far as I could tell. However, mustn't be churlish, and we ate everything in sight, but I could have eaten more, especially seeing as it was Sunday. Lunch and over-eating on a Sunday is a British institution, or it should be. It should be written in stone and imprinted on every child's tribal memory bank. Three things really should be sort of imprinted at birth electronically - over-eating on Sunday lunch. over-eating on Christmas Day and never kick your Granny when she is shaving.
After that we wandered about here and there until, by about half four, the poor ould boy was tired. Well, let's be fair, he had driven a long way in the course of that day and had a long way still to drlve.
"Are you tired, mate?" said I.
"Knackered," was his erudite response.
"Want to drop me off early then and get started back?"
"I wouldn't mind," said he.
So we came back to the jail.
It started raining again, though the wind had dropped considerably, and I got a bit wet.
No news this week, of course - but everyone will have guessed that from the above catalogue of drivel. However, I've got a meeting with the S.S. on Wednesday, so that should be interestlng. Having said that, it will be raining again - it always is these days around here. I spend my time in a permanent state of damp.
So, I got wet in the final act of Sunday's drama - exit stage left. It started off so well too!
The Voice In The Wilderness
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