All night long I have stood vigil at the town house. Pausing only to remove an occasional bead of sweat from the Hallett brow. The cross hair in the sight of my Heckler and Koch PSG1 trained and unwavering. Two floors up in The Town house, I have a clear view of the intended killing field. My camo, the nets and Mel next doors owl providing impenetrable disguise from even the sharpest eye.
I have corrected for wind drift and range, but not even a leaf has twitched. Nothing has stirred. Not even a mouse.
Let me skip back twelve hours, dear reader, and explain. This is a tale of the inevitable consequence to the little man of the unthinking machinations of government from afar. In April we had the smoking ban. In a place like the Old Walled Town this introduces problems for the tobacco addict. There just aren’t that many spaces that aren’t enclosed or public. The devotee must seek out a corner and guard it jealously in order to ensure a fix.
Heap upon this indignity, the new recycling schemes that we all seem to have to endure. This places another premium upon the territory available to smokers. In the tainted corners that they seek are now, cheek by jowl as it were, overflows of ordure, offal and tins of dog food that really ought to have been rinsed a bit more carefully.
As well as the glowing coal of the end of the nicotine stick, the night time brings evil red eyes. Creatures attracted by the easy pickings. And they grow bold my precious.
Last night The Boy and I were engrossed by the flickering image of sixties Britain. Suddenly a piercing scream cut through the falling dusk like a dagger.
She Of The Town House has seen a
It’s almost enough to make you want to give up!