As I brush a thick layer of dust from the cover of the huge leatherbound tome, the ornately scrolled title becomes clearer.  Where The Fatdog Walks stands out in big black letters; once shiny but now dimmed by time and faded in memory.  This near-forgotten volume of “Tails” still holds the magic of days past and a picture of places to which I may never return.

“Ugh…!” you say,

 “We don’t come here for mushy claptrap like ‘…places to which I may never return!'”

He hobbled along the edge of the winding country road, his single stick waving viciously at the passing cars. A hunched dull grey figure wrapped against the nippy March breeze he dodged the oncoming traffic with the ease of an old court jester capering for his master. Tramp or traveller? Difficult to say from where I sat in the drivers seat, but as I approached I was aware of what appeared to be a square of paper hung around his scrawny neck. Had a piece of his well tucked in newspaper escaped from his ruined ancient jacket leaving him short of a much needed layer of insulation? It could be a cold night for him tonight if that was the case. Maybe it was a sign – “50p for a cuppa, mate?”. or possibly “Bugger off and leave me alone!”. Who knows? I had no intentions of stopping to find out.

You may have noticed a distinct lack of posts on the blog during the past few weeks.

We’re taking a break.

I know, I know…for some of you this is the equivalent of the end of the world as you know it so you might as well find the nearest window and defenestrate yourself with immediate effect.  I sympathise but, your immediate demise notwithstanding, it’s time for me to concentrate on other things.  The bloggers amongst you will know how much time a blog can take up between writing for your own blog and keeping up with others.