Sentence
The Fivehundredandseventyeighth
Well, I don't know
what's got into our Kafkaesque WPC Isa Urquhart, she's always exuded
ample duende, is kind to children and animals, happy with her own
pulchritude, but over the past week or so has been distracted,
distant, pre-occupied, dismissive of Auntie Crist's Theory
of The Eildon Wormhole, even Auntie May's Soda Scones, and not at
all welcoming to Milly when she comes for a sleepover (not that I
suppose they get much sleep on those nights) and yesterday was
actually quite peevish when I messaged and spoke to her about the man
she'd befriended on Facebook; but something has changed - she
went out for a walk into Town, in the rain, up past the Parish Church
and down to The Cauld, past The Chain Bridge and along to Annay Road,
up past The Abbey all the
way to The Square, then down the High
Street and up towards High Cross and then by a shortcut I'd better
not mention, came home: Result - she was wet, her clothes drenched
(even through her Barbour jacket) her hair hanging like seaweed, but
her cheeks glowing and such a luminosity in her eyes that I haven't
seen for a long time; she went off to have a bath and later came down
in my white candlewick dressing-gown, phoned Milly and all was
sweetness and light, and when I asked her how she was feeling, said
"like a Million Dollars, cuz, much better than I have in a long
time," and later, the rain having stopped and the cold wind
ebbed, we wrapped ourselves in a couple of duffle coats and sat
outside for a smoke with our Laphroaig, and she told me!
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