As you feared, there are indeed lumps of it round the back. Cursing yourself for misplacing the curator's key, you clamber over the small fence and into the walled garden.
By now, the sky's almost dampened to a full black. Flapping down like a stunned owl, the dark inexorably splashes ink puddles over the rough track that snakes across the lawn. A stumble at this stage would be disastrous.
Then - from high behind you - the purring starts.1
Do you turn or run?
|David Van Day's2 Diddly Dum is styled exclusively by The Rev.|
2. Not that one.