Thirty-one.

A graceful hare came out of the woods ahead of me and I only startled it back the way it came because I was discussing Brexit with mum; oh the humanity. Truly I am sorry hare it is your place not mine. Silence is a guide to awareness, these damn phones are a menace, I could've eaten a pie tonight.

Here I am again. A shit town. I've to wait until four before my carriage collects me. Can't get a French bière at all. Leffe Ruby(merde) or Wife Beater. Youngsters rolling joints in empty market Halle and all down the stairwell from the chateau on top. Exterminate the brutes or sink this rotten ship. What would be missed? Me moaning I suppose. Stella Artois it is as I've only two options; strictly binary, on or off, black or white, beer or water. On my way down I drank hastily from a font which had no Non Potable sign, but neither did it have a Potable sign, yet the taste is perfect so I've filled my flask and expect Legionnaire's disease any day soon. Add it to the tic head still implanted in my neck from last spring (Lyme's disease too)? This body of mine is a right cocktail of crap.

Random North African drinking coffee and plotting their next attack in the right corner and Madame pondering the untruth of the latest Le Monde while I consider how many toilets in France are paperless and need that waste of good trees?