“I’ll tell you all about it some other time,” said the man trying to deflect all questions as to what the hell had been doing with himself for these past few weeks.
But great to see Rochelle still here, still keeping the Friday Fictioneers Fire burins bright, and boy do we need it on these freezing cold British nights, our house is like Greenland in the early evening when we get home from school and work. Thank you also to Dale Rogerson commander in chief of fun times, great photo Dale.
The minister of Shrawley (me) needs to put his memory Mitre on and see if he can come up with something pithy and entertaining so without further ado…
On My Marks…
Winter was a frugal time for benches. Varnish didn’t set near to absolute zero temperatures and any warmth from broad bottoms, pert posteriors or elephantine arses was sadly lacking.
People didn’t come for picnics in the winter, prickly cantankerous teens would rather chance a cigarette inside, rather than brave the unremitting cold.
When Park-rangers installed an infrared heat lamp the benches were seen to congregate underneath, before heading south for the summer when the snow melts, drifting and dancing down the swollen river to wash up at some holiday park beach.
Such is the transient lifecycle of the migratory bench.
There we are 100 words on the nose, the life of a park bench, fully fact checked.