It’s Time… Pt33
Written by Prim on 02/12/2022
But it’s gonna be… Find
‘You cannot find peas by avoiding… by avoiding… by av…’
Postie Prim and his Black & White dog found out
Ambiguous sub/ semi sub title. I mean, have they been found out, found wanting, giving, knowing. Found what in what sense. Nirvana? Well just hold up one dog gawn minute there badly drawn boy and I‘ll tell you.
We got lost. It was easy enough. Aye, and there were two paths you could go down. And yes, in the long run there was still time to change our mind. And, what was that bustle in the hedgerow?
Finding your way is everybody’s life story, isn’t it? Finding inner peace. Finding enough cash to throw to the proverbial abandonment. Finding peas. Got any peas? Inner peas. Got any Cash? Cash for peas, sold here, get ‘em while they’re hot, they’re lovely.
Follow your dreams. Follow your heart. Follow that camel. Find a way, Figure it out. Fulfill your destiny.
I’m taking the Fifth… different song/ band reference– have you found all five so far!
Diary note: Wed 24 November 2022 (semi/ sub title dub version… cha man!)
Thursday, second to last drop; hey, you said Wednesday? Either way, second to last drop at Dinglebob’s Doobrie Dub-Dub farm, Burnley. Finish and home for the quiz at Cricks. A hidden alley in winter’s dim light is enough to display a sign reading footpath only. Sat-Nav Lady assures us this is correct. We try it. Past houses whose security lights could outshine a lighthouse. Blinded we roll on. They’re not the farm house we’re looking for. A fork in the road, someone could get a puncture, do we go up or down? Darkness now set. Our balding front offside tyre needs air. The road turns to a track. Germany v Japan on the radio keeps us distracted. We go down at the fork. Immediately a grey silt like surface sucks us in. Don’t get out Cherry, you’ll ruin your flip-flops. It’s super slippery, its skiddery, its fun. It’s not sand, it’s not cement, its slush, like ice. We slip and slide along. We hear movement. Lo, water. There’s water below us to the right. The van skids left, then right. It dodgems on the silty track in the woods. Cherry navigates. Not that way, she growls, pointing to the water. The water is a stream, hunkered below a drop, steady as she goes, what is this place? We cruise on. The river bed silt, skiddy, slush like track turns with the stream then off into abyss. Another single car track with real earth emerges on the left. Phew terra firma. It is banked by steep rugged hillside and a barbed fence and shrub on the other side, equally as steep running down to the river that flows into the abyss. On we truck. Lit up in the headlights is a green tuft of grass down the middle of the track, this green Mohican our only guide. Otherwise it’s black. There’s only one way, forward. Hillside left, barbed fence and drop left. Forward we continue. Somewhere an owl hoots. A bustle in the hedgerow. We drive on. This is going nowhere Cherry, we’ll have to try the other way. Boom, a gate fence. Wooden. Padlocked. The track stops here. We have no choice, we must turn. No room to 3-point. Reverse using mirrors only, dull in the return light. Fence, hillside, fence, hillside, slight bend, hoot, river, fuck, back to hillside, silty grey track, slips, reverse, reverse, reverse, branches, too close, scraping sounds, doomed Cherry we’re doomed. Shut it and keep reversing. There, there’s a bend, swing it round there, she points, good navigation Cherry. The silt slippy track U-bends where we’d just left it, following the river as it opens to a field, the abyss. Right there’s maneuvering country. We swing her round and return all the way back to the fork. We now take the track going up. Pot holes and bush, woods and darkness. Higher we climb. Hoots abound. The darkness deafening. The track bends in the witching woods, somewhere an owl reads Durban’s Bread. Germany have scored from a penalty, the score comforts us. Somewhere a hedgerow bustles. Get back to the footie, back to reality. Uck, mien crappenwolfe, Japan equalize. Reality is bent. Ride on, shut it out. Dark. A bend in the blackness allows a gothic glow emit through the claggy trees. A colossus building affronts us as if stepping to greet or squash, we swerve to an opening on the right, made out from spatial awareness in the darkness, where there is no glow, no concrete mass, no hoot and nowhere to run to baby, nowhere to hide (6)… A wrought iron gate, ten feet high springs up from the mire. An owl hoots. A witch cackles, a bustle hustles, a chained bell chimes, falls off its hinges and clanks to the floor. Japan score again and go 2-1 up, reality twisted. Fleagenbugenschugel, we must’n skedaddle. We leave the parcel mid-air in a box provided. Cherry howls. An owl hoots, a shrill voice from the murk cackles, a wheel from a Citrus Wagon squeaks.
In other news – the French have bagged Unesco heritage status for their ‘umble baguette, which earns it recognition with other delights such as Stilton cheese, Acropolis, Champagne, Stonehenge and scotch eggs (insert smiley face)
Somewhere a bustle in a hedgerow leaks a sullen twit then t’woo. Bright orange eyes spiral black pupils in a figure of eight as the Sat-Nav Lady repeats Turn left at your peril, turn left at your peril, turn left at your pe… argh, a dog. Transmission over. Back at the house Cherry burps, …ril, turn left at your …
Till next time f-f-f-folks… keep ‘em peeled
Pip pip, ding-dong and ticketyboo
Keep it turning, keep it wheel
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