The last resort
Grandad April 21st, 2008
It was a funny old day yesterday.
The first thing I noticed when I got up was the beautiful sound of Spring.
I opened the windows to listen to the blackbirds, the finches, the doves and the gunfire.
The gunfire sounded interesting, so I went down to the village to get the paper. Sure enough, the villagers had caught themselves a tourist bus, and the tourists had tried to take refuge in the church. That was foolish, because everyone knows our church is closed on a Sunday.
So I racked up my score a bit, and went home.
Last night, Herself got a bit stroppy because I was cursing at the Interweb and saying rude things about servers that blow up, so I locked her in the coal hole and went for a pint.
Pullit served me my pint and we got chatting.
“What was that all about this morning?” I asked. “It’s a little early in the year for large tourist buses?”
“Did you not hear?” said Pullit. “Some feckin’ eejit has put out a brochure advertising this village as a tourist attraction.”
“Who would do that?” I said, though I knew it was just the kind of stunt Pullit would pull.
He looked all innocent. “I haven’t a clue. But we’re in for an interesting summer.”
“What does the brochure say?”
He went off to get me another pint and when he came back he slapped a brochure on the counter.
It was beautifully printed. There were lovely photographs of the village which had been nicely enhanced to make the place look quite attractive. There was a fancy little map showing how to get here. Of course, the pub had a nice little feature spot of its own.
“It’s going to be a good summer,” I said.
“Aye,” Pullit replied. “Plenty of sport.”
Printed across the front in nice Celtic lettering was the title.
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