The Woodcraft Folk are utterly bonkers. You may have noticed that, if you have any doings with them. On the top of Dunstable Downs, the chill is coming up my coat flaps at about -5, the wind rushing up that high chalk escarpment barely unimpeded by bush or tree, and finding delight at the top by freezing off my nether extremities.
And I have only stepped out the car to hand over the kids. Normally I am quite a fan of this geocaching lark, but I have no desire today to grub about the bushes looking for a plastic sandwich tub containing the advice Joan and Eric once found this. Regarding the snow on the roadside and feeling the ice crystals forming up my nose, I am delighted to let the demented noddle-headed happy folk do their geocachery business without my help.
I am much more sensible today. Being of sound mind and still standing body, I am drawn to other pursuits, in the warmth. With leather to stroke, handmade paper to gently part, and a typewriter without the letter B to touch, tenderly.
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