Hands Across the Sea

Aach, I won't bore you with weather stuff. Sufficient to say that it involved young Miss Weasel flying to Bristol, then being diverted to Manchester, then landing, then taking off again and trying once more for Bristol. Not to mention a pre-dawn drive of terror from Weasel Hall in the limo. I mention the limo because it appears I have been trying to drive it without coolant/antifreeze. Took it down to the garage and they put four litres of pink stuff in it. Either there is a leak or I have been idling the engine one too many times.

I am going to make it easy on myself: get one of those kids' steering wheels, the ones with the little horn and a suction pad, and sit on the sofa, occasionally ejaculating, "wanker", "arsehole" and "thank you, not". Parp, parp.

Excuse me, I realise I am writing this without a drink.






That's better: a g&t for Mrs Weasel and a glass of Theakston's Old Peculier for me because, not only am I old....

It's the Winter Solstice. My usual MO is to dance naked around the garden. Of late I have gone off the idea. It is not a good idea to take something that is very small to start with and render it microscopic due to a reduction in temperature. This year, I shall go out, have a fag, and bark at the moon.


So, Hands Across the Sea. There are quite a few Americans who read the blog. Not all of them come here looking for a certain brand of skimpy beachwear that sounds remarkably similar to Wrinkled Weasel, or has the logo WW. (How they have room for a logo baffles me). I have picked more cloth from between my feet than you get on one of these outfits but I promise to walk into town wearing one if Gordon Brown ever gets back into government.

Hands Across the Sea. It is not often one finds a blog that actually shines as an example of creativity and entertainment, whilst at the same time ploughing an individual furrow. Somewhere in that continent, that continent of dreams and ambition and sentimentality, tempered by that special kind of stickiness you get from Krispy Kreme and Taco Bell, there is an author called Shannon Woolfe, who has graciously allowed me to reprint one of her stories. Not only that, Wolfy, for it was she, is going to do a piece just for this blog. Wow. Actually. My stiff upper lip almost trembled with pleasure, for the story has an intriguing rythm and cadence like an ocean tide.

So below this post, is Shannon's first contribution to the blog. Sit comfortably and enjoy a wonderful short story. Thank you.