Scratchwood in a fluster having goaded me up early has it in mind that once lunch has been beaten then with the sprouts at their lessons and therefore no safe place for slate to be found, myself and Q are to be off to the quacks. There being a matter to be discussed regarding ‘Nip, our eldest, we arrive and having entered that severe building divested ourselves of soot and sausages to wait, to be called or led, by bell or by breadcrumbs.
We are alone in a room set for three dozen and to make a brave stab at privacy the quacks have their gramophone set to play, but no one to guard it. So being a soul with fingerless gloves I step up and pick through their selection of songs, removing and much to Q’s horror the ambient music best suited for lifts for a dented example of summer delights. Soon and too loud it is Bill Withers, and who can abide Bill Withers if not to sing?
Q squirms and glares with one eye. So I take myself aside and when passing through comes quack or physic I nod in Q’s direction in case of the noise. She turns colourful and this I might say is the woman who as a girl broke like Lady Croft into the Science Museum. Times they change but the graphics are better and sometime doubtless soon then this old fool is in trouble.