The damp smell of grass
is sweet. It reminds me of a picnic long
ago, but it was summer then and the field was bright with buttercups so tall I
could lose myself. Just like then, I
never want to get up again. I lie completely
still until the damp has seeped through my coat and I am shivering.
Stokes’ Jack Russell
finds me when they come out to lock up the shotgun for the night and Stokes hauls
me up roughly, muttering under his breath.
In the dark empty lounge of the Lone Gelding Mrs Stokes begins to pour out a brandy, but I ask for Pernod instead: long and with lots of ice in a tall glass. It’s the only drink I really like.
In the dark empty lounge of the Lone Gelding Mrs Stokes begins to pour out a brandy, but I ask for Pernod instead: long and with lots of ice in a tall glass. It’s the only drink I really like.
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