...nicely to:

Sunday

Having stayed the night in his spare room, The Ox and I had coffee and muffins for wot was left of the morning, and chatted idly. Nooma rang, and asked if I'd care to help clear the field in preparation for putting up a marquee for Smiley (Ex) Surf-Shop Gal's wedding the following weekend. I replied with a chirpy "Why the fuck would I want to do that?" Why she thought I would hasten to a field *literally* to shovel shit of a hungover Sunday morning is anybody's guess. And for a wedding I wasn't even going to. I was correctly unapologetic in the dismissal of this absurd notion.

Nooma later announced that the manoeuvring of manure had been sensibly abandoned, so instead I went to her family house for squash and McVitie's Gold bars. This seemed fitting, as both she and I had woken up with 'Gold!' in our heads that morning. Nooma, her mother and I were invited over the hill to the next village for bacon sandwiches. I initially refused to go, on account of being in last night's clothes, all crumpled and shrouded in dog hair. Mind you, Nooma's mother's trousers were flecked in cow shit - so we agreed that we'd both go without changing, provided the other did the same. Nooma's parents are funny. Did I mention they wore matching (light blue) coloured suits to the wedding, just to embarrass Nooma? Well, if I didn't, now seems as good a time as any.

Whilst in the café ordering bacon butties and cake, Nooma's mother regaled an acquaintance with details of Operation Pat. She said that it was abandoned on account of the scat being too runny, and clearly shovels were the wrong tools. Then she said that her dog began to eat some of the product, and she started to retch at the sloppy cow turd dripping from its gob. She was blissfully unaware of the customer unwittingly stationed within earshot, who pulled the sourest lemonface as he put aside what remained of his toast and HP Sauce.

After breakfast, Nooma met Blonde Curly Physio's baby, and then she joined Good Chum and I on the jaunt back east (Nooma I mean - we aren't baby thieves). The drive back was replete with chat and laughter to an occasionally uncontrollable degree, punctuated by the occasional nap. At one point, Nooma requested that I open a window. I obliged, then enquired if this was because she was too hot. She countered that no, it was because she'd "fluffed". Another barrier broken down!

We stopped by some water for fish and chips, observed a man with a dyed beard, put Nooma on her train to The Ants' Nest, and she was gone.

Later, I would receive a text which read "Hello. You ROCK! That is all. Xx" I concluded that a world in which someone who rocks thinks that you rock cannot be all that bad.

And that is all!

FIN?