The church clocks have just struck midnight and I am striding purposefully down the lonely, ill-lit lanes that surround Shaston. Such unwonted activity is a tribute to my lovely Romanian fiancée; I am determined to shed a few more pounds before our rapidly approaching wedding. Litheness is as alien to me as perspiration and five-mile nocturnal hikes, but the miracle shall be achieved.
Just as the final reverberation dies away, I notice a police car has drawn to a halt behind me. “Evening, Sir” says a youthful voice. “Out late?”
Blame it on the setting - I have just passed a rustic graveyard – and the hour, which is more calculated to bring to mind Bram Stoker than Thomas Gray, but this is an opportunity not to be missed and I simply cannot resist the urge to unsettle or, at least, to mildly discombobulate: “My Transylvanian bride has turned me into one who walks by night,” I explain entirely truthfully albeit in my most sepulchral tones.
1 comment:
I am wiping the coffee off my screen. WARN a person, Mark.
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