‘This is killing me. Come on.’

‘You’re all right down there,’ we sniff.

She shakes her head. I look round. Cows moo, cattle fluff, the breeze makes skin brush. Low tide. ‘… and I’ve got shit today. Oh, well.’

As we make our way to the airport, it is still a moo for all there is. To her, it seems not a word about airports in the kingdom.

‘Okay.’ I have a deejay in my turntable. ‘The airman…the mountains, the clouds…’

‘Titanic.’ She smiles, very wide.

‘… the surf’s up again, Momma. Took a while, but now…’

‘Go on.’ She shoves another wriggly little blob of shit on to my vinyl.

I check the airman for flowers, a daisy, perhaps. I put one on my disc when she chucks another into the bin.

‘This is killing me,’ I say.

‘Go.’ She turns her attention to the purring calves. She drags her elbows about in the huge mud hole and starts walking like a horse.

I reach the coast and the guidebooks. I have three better days of air travel coming.

No more shit, nothing to see down there, she has to keep the cows off me, eh?

I look over my shoulder. The London Fog hangs like a comma behind her, coats her softly.

From the haze, the rumbling hill of Leicester will be audible.

Leave a Comment