Another wet summer camping in Brittany. Every year we do this, every bloody year! I hoped, once the kids left home, we’d end this annual nightmare, but he won’t have it. Says he looks forward to meeting up with Maureen and Jim from Barnsley and Betty and Kenneth from Sidcup.
God, the thought of another year, sitting in a leaky tent, listening to Maureen from Barnsley go on about her delphiniums and Kenneth from Sidcup bringing us up to date with his gallstones, is more than I can bear.
Maybe this year I really will throw myself overboard, mid-channel.
I even backfilled the hole with some expansive cement, the sort that doesn’t shrink during hardening but actually expands a little over time. I know that may sound extreme but these were desperate times.
Each time he turns up he looks a little more decomposed but you can still clearly see the hole in his head where I shot him.
I know what game he’s playing. Reckons the guilt will eat away at me and I’ll confess.
That’s not going to happen.
I’ll just keep digging deeper holes and get in more cement.
“Don’t think so George. I’ve had a quick peek up above and there was quite a frost last night. Looks like winter is on its way. You know how the cold gets into these decaying bones of mine. So I thought we’d stay in, make the most of this warm soil left over from those hot summer days we’ve had this year. Might go out tonight.”
“That would be nice love. We could sit on the bench the kids had dedicated to us and watch the stars. Just like we did when we were alive.”