Parrots and bulls. Odd shaped balls.

  • Tuesday, November 01, 2011
  • 0
We are nine. At nine we cross the threshold, ghost busters on a mission.
Getting there we bob and weave and laugh, a line of Cyclops across fields and paths. We brave the bull in the field and sharply contour along barbed wire fences. Our first objective reached we stand beneath it's sagging beams. We drink a brew named Odd Shaped Balls pulled by an odd shaped barmaid. In another room her companion with a tangled beard and a tangled soul hides his eyes under a cap and stares at a fuzzy black and white TV mounted on a crate. There is a parrot in the inglenook. It may know where the bodies are buried but it doesn't say. As we leave I stare up at the limp flag of St George above me before we are swallowed up in the dark night. Once again we traverse the Downs in darkness, my feet bonded to the earth and my spirit to the heavens. I love running like this and I am pleased that Liz has joined us, she is our first lady, wry, dry and faintly Northern.
We are nine. At 10:30pm we reach our second objective, the end. We cross the threshold thirsty. This pub is warm and bright. I drink Fosters.

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