I'm digging a hole. I don't why but once these projects get underway they take on a life of their own and the only way forward is completion. Suffice to say I'm currently languishing thirty feet down in the Buckinghamshire countryside. Ewan has lost the entrance and his good marbles so we can't make heads or tails of our surroundings and the only moles we've encountered have been twats.
This predicament reminds of a quote I once heard that ran away like this, "Only a man in a well can appreciate its original intentions." Obvious but relevant. Sick in this musty cave it's only the bats going steady with sanity and committing this to memory isn't the experience I had expected.
Without sandwiches and a singsong I cannot fault sincerity but the digging has long since become a chore and my daylight addiction is getting the panic on me. Ewan's directional capabilities are disconcerting and if I have to show him which way is up once more I'll be attempting a rage.
Strange that such an occurrence can happen in Bucks but our original aim of playing Great Escape might have been an ill fitting usage of thirty seven acres of well admired greenery. Well? I think the props were an aid to frivolity and the effect of getting lost has added a certain mystery to the evening. But lo, above the din of silence I hear offerings. Patters and the promise of a preemptive supper originating not millimeters above our current locale.
Laying on a smashing jacket potato and fork we survey the new modifications to the cabbage patch. I have been in ten minds as too whether it is still necessary in this day and wage but on the slim chance I have need for a Winnie The Pooh themed activity park the area would prove an uninviting double up for Rabbit's Garden. Yet in the short long-term such things can't break the dusk and our newly discovered gold seam is going to need serious excavation from in-between the attic rafters if we have any hope of reaching Moscow by the 27th. Ciao.