Sorry this is late, Ragtag, fandango and You’re daily word prompt, spring has sprung and ive been cutting the lawn and transporting unequal sized clods of half buried concrete up the garden to create the easily draining base for my raised bed. Such is the life of a middle aged middle Englander literally about 20 miles form the middle of England, claimed by some folk to be Droitwich, never a more salubrious place could there be for this type of honour, salubrious was it not for the shutting down of the Brine Baths and the profusion of Charity shops along the high street. Lets face it, everywhere’s shit these days.

The preceding Thursday night or rather Friday morning at 3;23 I received a text from my daughter up in Manchester telling me she’d been shot with. BB gun. That was the message, that’s all. I didn’t get this message until about 4 hours after it was sent, told Mrs T and then immediately googled BB gun, which is related to a pellet gun which we played war with when we were kids, but only shooting below the waist and in the day light, we were friends, this attack on my daughter wasn’t, I’m assuming, from friends. And so it turned out, fucking terrifying.

She’s walking back from a club with her mate down Oxford road, the street lights are on, and there’s probably cameras all over the place recording everything going on, from foxes snuffling through bins to a Nissan Micra cruising down Oxford road with 4 lads in, leering at these two girls, slowly driving by, turning round and driving back past them again. Daughter and friend are ok, they feel safe together and attempt to hide behind bins, shelters, whatever, but the 4 lads keep cruising up and down, up and down. Until one of them pulled out a gun and shoots at the two girls, my daughter’s friend gets hit on the cheek (!) and my daughter is hit on the leg I think. When the car turns round again the girls run and get to safety, back to the halls of residence. Now correct me if I’m wrong but coming home from a club was always quite a mission and sometimes felt like a  quest, or at least that’s how I remember it, getting to the all night garage to buy fags and chocolate, crisps and Fab Ice lollies, but this seems in a different league altogether. Just mental. How can it be ok to walk home and have some twats shoot a gun, no matter how small, at you when you’re goiung about your own business? I try not to overreact with my daughter, and I really don’t want to scare her, and so far this year she’s handling things with a really mature attitude, non hysterical, but almost matter of fact. She was spiked in Leeds and then shot at in Manchester, the world’s gone fucking insane I’m unsure I should still be here.

Anyhow, she’s ok, the police have been informed and I’m glad she’s in her room right now!