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!