Gregor has been thinking. This is something Gregor is good at, perhaps too good.
For example, yesterday I was engaged in a trivial pursuit, something worthy of no great discussion. I was approached by a man who asked me what I was doing dressed as an old lady and wearing enormous sunglasses. He then suggested that the middle of the bread aisle in the supermarket was no fit place to be erecting a tent, and that brandishing a crystal ball at people and wailing “Cross my palm with silver. Go On. CROSS IT!” was disturbing the other customers.
I explained a number of things to him about the wisdom of brown shoes with black pants, particularly on large men with amusing moustaches and bad breath and in the end was thrown bodily from the supermarket. This was a great disappointment.
Because Gregor is used to being at church in Montrose. I am used talking to people where I can say whatever I like and perhaps shout a little. I like being in a place where anybody can say whatever they like and be whoever they are and nobody is picked up, whirled around somebody’s head and hurled bodily out into the street.
Except that one time. But Gareth had it coming.
