“So at this point Watson, our white witch, realising she has succeeded in invoking rain, departs in haste.”
“And the somewhat structural nether garments Holmes?”
“One is forced to presume she was sky clad.”
Look, I’m just trying to get the hedge into some sort of order. I don’t mind having to tackle hawthorn older than me, I don’t even mind having to cut off ivy so thick and gnarled it’s easier just to chop it into logs. But why on earth do I have to wade knee deep through beer cans, horse feed bags and other equine detritus whilst I’m doing it.
This particular lay-by has always been a fond favourite of the sort of fly tipper who is so keen on their art that he/she/it ignores the fact they have to drive further to dump their rubbish on us than they do to get to the tip.
In truth it’s not really a lay-by, it’s a field gateway set back off the road a bit. At one time it was so popular with the dinner time adultery set that they virtually had to queue to use it. Get there by ten past twelve and you’d missed your place.
So popular was it that one of the more enthusiastic practitioners slipped a mate who worked for the council a few bob and they even put a bit of tarmac down for him.
It’s been a place known for its specialised tastes. One morning I went to feed heifers and found a pair of black thigh length ladies boots and a bra and pants that might be described more properly as ‘foundation garments.’ I mentioned this to the police who came out to check in case they related to any missing person investigations and they agreed with me that these were garments that a town full of shipbuilding engineers could be proud of. They were designed to support, not titillate, and would probably stop a 9mm round at forty yards.
We did idly speculate on what happened to the wearer, after all they’re not the sort of things one would expect someone to forget through simple absent-mindedness.
It had been a wet night; hence our preferred theory was that the lay-by had been appropriated by a white witch of robust build who had danced sky-clad to bring on the rain. Then caught in a downpour and perhaps over exuberant, she’d decamped, (probably by car, but we didn’t want to presume too much) inadvertently forgetting garments that she might otherwise have considered fundamental.
But briefly, doubtless so very briefly, it’s clear. Doubtless builders will recall it to mind the next time they want to get rid of the rubble they’ve already charged you for taking to the tip. Doubtless the equine type who has a strange use for horse bandages will return, and dinner-time adultery may even make a comeback.
Still, if you want to meet a lady who is far above such problems, now in paperback or ebook form
As a reviewer commented, “This author has created a rich world, filled with interesting characters – of whom Maljie is one of the most colourful. Her life and adventures are presented though the gossip of the poet Tallis Steelyard who has a sharp eye and a sharper tongue. Reminiscent somewhat of Pepys’ diaries about the small and large events of London, Tallis is a better writer. And why is Mr Webster dangerous – too much of my money is being spent on his books.”