Legends from our own lunchtimes

Tuesday, August 07, 2012

Fouchecourt to Corre

If Corre didn't have  a canal running slap bang through the middle of it and a road running across it in the other direction, I get the impression it would be at the end of the line somehow.  There is something approximating absolutely nothing to see and for that matter almost the same number of places to be seen in as well.

It would be the perfect place to lay low for a while, till the heat was off.

Off what I probably can't say, although I suspect there could be a problem brewing with one of our batteries because there's a bit of heat emanating from under the bed and there's a distinct whiff of something deadly in the air to go with it.  If it can hold out till tomorrow I might become enthused enough to check it out when Grahame and Aileen are here.  There's nothing like having an audience when trying to look intelligently at the ends of wires when one of the members of it was once an electrician.

For what's left of today though, I'll probably just lie around reading one of the several thousand pieces of pulp fiction that seem to litter every crevice in the boat since the people manning the book swap in St-Jean-de-Losne implored one of us to take as many as we could carry.   I don't read that sort of stuff too often, even thought it seems to work wonders for my steely nerves, my ability to walk unnoticed through a crowd, to spot the bad guys just from the glint of sunlight on their hunting scope from a thousand yards,

And I can tell at an instant when I'm being followed too.

I just can't quite figure what I've done that would remotely interest the FBI.

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