Thunder only happens…

Two down, fifty odd to go.


After some pissing around this morning. Mostly because a hungover and clueless Jon having to pack. We made it to weston-super-mare.


‘Will I need a towel?’ shouts Jon from upstairs.
‘Of course you will’ I shout back.
‘I don’t know, I’ve never been camping’
‘Would you use a public towel if there even was one?’ I had to ask.


Weston was windy, frankly a ball ache for long hair and when we took our beers outside the wind claimed a quarter before we ran back inside.


As type this Midge is getting used to the pier mobile on the winding coastal roads while we listen to Fleetwood Mac. We are singing along. Trying to get rid of the David Essex earworm from the Tannoys of Weston’s Grand Pier.


The car is already a mess of clothes and wires and I don’t think ‘The Chain’ is the best song to encourage safe driving, and I’m seatbeltless leaning forward in the backseat because the phones plugged into the dashboard.


Off to Clevedon now, yes doubling back on ourselves because Weston is more ‘resonant’ it’ll make sense in the book, hopefully.




BTW Jon ended up forgetting his towel anyway.



Sent from the future

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