The last few days have not been my finest. It all blew up on sunday in the kitchen and I had to walk out and tell Andy I wasn't able to work that afternoon, and then spent the rest of the day feeling sorry for myself and sleeping. I opened up the pub in the evening and went straight back to bed once it was closed and locked up. After a good lie in this morning, I pulled on my black cotton shorts, a vest top and walked down the fields of the estate, down to the stream what runs through it. I sat down on a soggy grassy spot and hung my legs down in the water, splashed around, got brave and sat myself down in the middle of the stream and let the water run over my outstretched legs. I lay back and looked at the sky, the Kites flying over head and the airplanes flying in to London. I didn't care who saw me either. I figured that after the last few days, most people would have assumed that I've lost my mind anyway, so it made little difference what I was seen to be doing.
I walked back to the village shop where I bought myself a huge bag of colourful assorted sweets from behind the counter and some banana flavoured milkshake, then proceeded to make myself ill by scoffing down almost a quarter of the contents of the bag and all of the milk. Back to the stream with De Quincy and Fitzgerald and a while later, and the first half of 'Confessions' read, I walked back to the pub, the soles of my feet itching terribly. A shower, a plate of Marmitey toast and I'm feeling pretty good.