So, apropos nothing at all, Postman Pat (real name changed from Neil to protect his identity) brarp-braaaaaped his way up my gravel drive at an unseemly pace on his exceedingly sharp and talented KTM350 this afternoon.
'Come on then, let's get this Honda blooded!'
'Oooer!'
'Well, seeing as that escaped convict didn't get you, youv'e got no excuse! Get yer kit on and let's go!'
And so, after about 2,400 miles of off-road hell, eating his dust and wondering why his handguards were on upside down, we paused for breath, a drink of saline solution and a quick take-in of the view.
'So, what's all this about an escaped convict then?'
'Don't tell me you didn't see the police helicopter chasing up and down your road t'other evening...'
And so, kind gentlefolk of Herefs, you can all relax and sleep easy in yer beds. The cops are not, after all, chasing down manic speeders in the scattered villages of our fair county. Escaped rapists, pillagers and murderers I can cope with (especially now I have two loaded 12 bores by my bed in case he was of the 'bent' variety of rapist), airborne speed cops I most certainly can not!
On our way back, there was a small white plastic bag adorning the entrance to the village. I stopped and moved it to the other side of the road just to confuse the eff out of the filth. Well, the rumour about the escaped convict could just be a cover story after all...
