Astra

Claire's mum needs a new car, so I went and looked at an '03 Astra stored on a farm near Drumelzier (silent Z).

The car was fine, but the vendor was something special. Part shepherd, part council worker, he was on crutches due to an operation to his knee necessitated by a quad-bike accidents. A true man of the region, he told tales of drug addict incomers getting council houses; of cripples met at the job centre walking unaided to the pub; of failings in every external entity he interacted with. It was better than being in a taxi.

Later, as I cooked beef olives and sipped my martini (shaken, not stirred but gin, not vodka) I ruminated on the nature of our deeply held beliefs; our hypocritical bigotries; our "little deaths".

Then I made myself another Martini.