Virginia Woolf and her cardigan

I’ve had a very green and rambly weekend. On Saturday, me and friend X did an 8 miler around Devil’s Dyke culminating in a cup of tea in a ponsified barn. The man at the kiosk, after fleecing us £3 for a small piece of gloop-topped cake with scratchings of old sawdust in it, told us that the Knights Templar used to live at the nearby farm and that we really shouldn’t leave without taking a gander at their donkey wheel. We took his advice but, like the cake, we got little pleasure from the experience. However, the next day’s ramble was full of thrills. By the River Ouse, which friend X found very unsatisfactory, as far as waterways go, owing to it being tidal and not looking like Wind in the Willows, we met a man with two-tone shoes and a wife who was like the human equivalent of a dalmation, blotchy. Being so close to where Virginia Woolf had finally succeeded in killing herself, we had a long conversation about what she was wearing when she died. Two-tone man said she had a jumper on whereas I felt confident that it would have been more a comfy cardigan. Whatever, she must have had very big pockets to accommodate the size of stone necessary to drag her thin, Bloomsbury body down into the depths. Friend X thought maybe, having spent most of her life moping about in dusty drawing rooms with bi/tri/pan sexual deviants, she wouldn’t have had the time to learn to swim, so that would help speed up the drowning process. After that, we came across some very noisy lady frogs in the bullrushes who, as relayed to me by a passing geriatric jogger, were gagging for frog cock so were trying to out croak each other. Further on, we passed through a very smelly farm which friend X, thought was dirtier than it should have been and had a queer atmosphere. Her feelings of discombobulation were compounded when she saw a field of crucified crows, wings-akimbo like Jesus and those other naughty boys. What fun!