Today I am feeling quite Cobley and all that entails; whilst wearing a pair of cotton shorts in a sort of colonial style.
I am sat in The Soup Seller in Glossop, a merry cafe whose pleasant environment has now been interrupted by a load of sprogs, and my karma is no longer calm. If I ever have children and become a middle class parent akin to those in here (one of the children is called Theodore, please take me to a solitary forest on a damp and murky day, make me walk like the scene from Miller’s Crossing into the woods, make me dig my grave and then shoot me.
Apart from that I am fine.
