Shamefaced as ever. Word reaches me (via the vine of Chandler's grapes of wrath) of a wholly unfortunate, tragic story of unimaginable misfortune and great hilarity that made me laugh a-plenty till my blooming odd socks came right off each of my tootsies. Or GHYMMLATMBOSCROEOMT as them kids have it in their 'Sexting' type-talk.
But seriously, it could have all gone madly wrong for that happily-married man and intrepid explorer Dave "Magellan" Johnson.
Having set out solo to grab a brief moment or two of solitude in a quiet and well-earned bit of respite away from the virulent source of all his joy, he strode like a maniac off the well-established path.
Did he not learn the country code, I ask you? What's he like, eh, readers?
So, while waiting for the safety of darkness, he decided to build himself a refuge in the shape of a tent formed from a load of old scratchy brambles, as you do. There he rolled around a bit in his all-weather shorts and t-shirt, scourging himself to pass the time.
Severe brambling, pictured.
Within a mere matter of hours a team of rescuers came upon him bramble-scarred, dazed, confused, and seated in front of an impressively-constructed fire, drinking a flagon of ale, in a bar. Where he denied he was hiding until the forecast 'Hurricane June' had blown over. (Which it never will, as far as I can see.)
A remarkable story and a poignant warning about the dangers of rushing into marriage, methinks. As they say, the man who marries in haste, repents at his leisure, on a hillside. Desolate.
A St.Brandy dog, somewhere or other.
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