Description

“You’re the fellah that’s followed us from Scotland.” There I was, stood standing on Preston station, minding my own business, resplendent in old, brown, heather stained shorts, sweat shirt and knobbly Knees. I had just waved vaguely Churchillian Victory V signs of farewell at Bob’s departing train, Green Jack having already made his own homewardbound connection. Whilst attempting, simultaneously, to oon my jacket and support my muddy bike with my buttocks, I was accosted. Stallion-like the steed turned its head to view the goings on in the vicinity of its valuable and vulnerable assets and reared backwards.