Uuuumph. Jumping Jehoshaphat and his dad, it’s bouncing down. I can just make out the shape of the station sign. Skipley is famous for its otters. I’m not surprised. If this rain keeps up, I’ll be part otter by Wednesday. Skipley is so proud of its otters that its sign reads:

Skipley

Home of the

West Riding Otter

But last time I was here some Yorkshire hooligan had altered the sign so it read:

Skipley

Home of the

West Riding Botty

Honestly . . .

I am squelching across towards it. That’s where Cain was standing when I left at the end of last term. The Dark Black Crow of Heckmondwhite. Cain Hinchcliff. Local bad boy made . . . er . . . bad.

I remember him winking at me as the train pulled out. With his dark hair whipping around his face and his dark eyes looking and looking at me. Licking his lips. Holding a dead rabbit in his hand.

Making the dead rabbit he had in his hand wave its paw at me. And rub its eye with its paw as if it was crying.

He thinks that kind of thing is funny.

I dragged my case along the platform towards the exit by the sign. I hope the sign has been cleaned up since last term because it doesn’t give a very good impression of the . . . Hang on a minute, the hooligan has been at it again. Now it reads:

Skipley

Home of the

Brest Riding Otter

That is just wrong.

That shouldn’t be allowed.

What if American people were on the train? They have a seizure if you say prat.

I left the station and trundled across the bridge to the other side where the buses to Heckmondwhite go from. Brrr, I am absolutely soaking. The rain has got in through the front of my coat, and I think into my new bra. Or new “corker holder” as me and my friends say. I hope it doesn’t shrink. I might get a corker injury.

Hahahaha. What larks! I’m going to put that in my Performance Art Diary, or as I call it, my “Darkly Demanding Damson Diary.” Under “Ideas for Modern Dance.”

As I got to the stop, a bus flew round the bend and screeched to a halt. Ahh, good, what a relief. The door opened. The warm, welcoming bus opening its welcoming doors to welcome me back to my— A cloud of smoke billowed out. The driver was smoking a pipe. Uh-oh. I recognized that balaclava. It was Mrs. Bottomly. She did part-time bus driving as well as cage fighting in Leeds. I got on and pretended to be looking for change in my purse as I said, “Single to Heckmondwhite, please.”

Mrs. Bottomly repeated “single to Heckmondwhite, please” in a horrible posh simpering way as she slammed the ticket down. Then she said, looking down at my legs, “Keep those bloody legs off my seats AND mind how you go!”