And now, the riveting continuation of Sweettenorbull’s account of a jam his poor car got into; alas, the trusty vehicle is tangled up in blue, so to speak, and her driver and a certain bereft bird feeling a trifle–shall we say–unpleasant. . .


The Curse of the Pheasant


It might upset you to learn that the protagonist of my last post, the Citroën C3 I call Baby Blue, has blood on her hands – or strictly speaking on her wheels; or very strictly and completely literally speaking, since the blood (and feathers) on her wheels have long since come off, she is responsible (or very, very strictly speaking, since she is non-sentient, and I was at the wheel at the time, I am responsible) for the death of an innocent creature.


It happened in a low valley in the very west of Northumberland near the border with…

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