LE JOG

[El Gordo]

After an indolent few days, I ventured off into the snowy landscape once more.

I had intended spending a while in the enchanting St Erth, sampling Jim's bread and Kathy's pasties before a pint at the Star, but I was somewhat shocked to learn that 7 crimes had been reported during December, including 3 alleged cases of possession of cannabis, so I decided to press on, rather than spend a moment too long in this hotbed of crime and social disintegration.

A mile or so endured on the A30 -- a bigger road than ideal, but I had no choice -- before branching off onto the B3302 toward the intriguingly named village of Leedstown. However, before reaching my target, disaster struck. The old war injury, the dodgy left calf acquired in the great Boston campaign of 2009, flared up again, and I knew I'd have to curtail my jaunt. Instead, I limped into the tiny village of Fraddam. I was desperately keen to see the welcoming glow of a saloon bar in Fraddam, but tragically, could find no sign of any commercial establishment whatever.

Cursing my luck, I dragged my knackered limb into a derelict barn, and made a bed for myself among the flea-ridden bales of hay, from where I post this message under the pale Cornish moonlight.

An icy blast is freezing my heart, and I am growing weaker by the hour. I hope to be able to rejoin the human race before I expire, but I am not sure I will make it. But hay, I have at least met a splendid old nag with whom, in this bale-ful environment, I am building a stable relationship.

Farewell friends. I hope to survive these travails, and to resume contact with the world beyond, before too long.