I really can’t moan about life in Dorset. People are nice to me and I’ve been accepted into the community. The locals find me to be endearing, a bit like one of those dogs that’s so ugly that it’s almost cute and madder than a box of frogs as an added bonus. Or, at worst, I’ve been accepted like a bad harvest or a squall the night before the biggest night of fishing. In relatively short order I was given a part-time position with enough hours to pay for my daily expenses — including my Waitrose and hand roasted coffee/hand blended tea tendencies. The landlady has made me her substitute innkeeper. She lets out rooms. In her absence, I will manage the house and sort out the housekeeping.
The only thing that sometimes gets to me is the same thing that gets to many people here. It’s bloody boring. Not to worry. I will go to Japan in October with Viking-type chum. That will be interesting. In a country where everything is said in allusion and euphemism, I will have to mind someone from a country where anything short of the most brutal honesty is considered a major character flaw. Before then, I will fly to Liverpool for a long weekend. Having taken our OZ’s recommendations into serious consideration, I’ve booked a room in L4 within minutes of the Sanctum Sanctorum.
