A couple of weeks ago I met a friend for coffee down in the village.
It was very pleasant that day, as it was before The Cold set in.
We sat outside and supped our coffees and batted the breeze as the world passed by.
When we were leaving, we were having that last bit of a chat on the footpath that seems to be compulsory, when a car pulled up.
He was looking for directions.
I have said before that my village seems to be in some kind of no-man’s land where people can’t find their way around. It is nearly impossible for me to go out without being asked for directions to some obscure place.
This car wanted directions to some place that I knew was about thirty miles away, and there was no way I was going to give thirty miles of instructions, as he wouldn’t remember them anyway. I sent him up to the bogs.
My friend, who reads this site was amazed. “You sent them up to the bogs!” he exclaimed. “I always thought that was a joke?” I was a bit annoyed at this, as I always tell the truth here, and the idea that I was indulging in fiction was a bit of an affront.
I have been asked for directions several times since then, but this morning we entered new territory.
I was sitting having my first mug of tea of the day, and trying to wake up when the door bell rang. There was a bloke there with a parcel in his hand. I thought it was President Mugabe at first, but it was the colour that confused me. He was trying to deliver the parcel and was lost. Why he chose my door bell, I don’t know. I must have some ethereal sign hanging over my presence that says “This bloke knows where he is and were everyone else is”.
I sent him up the bogs.
He’ll add a bit of colour to the place.