_. Passion Sunday
Out of bed at 10, not feeling too bad after our late session and kitchen disco. I recall Ally posing like Nina Carter, or someone equally appealing, upon the bonnet of the ailing spitfire, clutching a bottle of home-brewed nettle wine. Glynnie, wearing my 'donkey jacket' went into the village with a sweeping brush and proceeded to behave like an Irish labourer.
Breakfast was a repeat of yesterday's sausage and egg extravaganza. Lynn remarked on our energy and suggested we perhaps should think of consulting a psychiatrist. Afterwards we made the familiar bottle-strewn march to the same pub where we occupied the same seats. The landlord paled as we crashed through the doors.
The rain came down on the craggy hillside as we left the pub at 3. We all returned to the kitchen disco, then adjourned to a card table, but at some point Ally disappeared. Snow had started to fall and she had wandered out of the cottage and vanished. I was disturbed to say the least, and before you could say Chris Bonington we were all out in the fields. After what seemed like hours we found her looking like a Turkish mud wrestler, propped up on a dry stone wall. We got her back to the cottage where she sat by the fire.
The others drove to Cracoe, and we followed on later. We sat next to a blazing fire. _____.
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