by Emma Franco – 14 Oct 2004
Yon huge black cloud looks like a foul bombard that would shed its liquid upon us. The high winds sorely ruffle us and whip against our cheeks.
Somewhere to my left, though the gales do not permit me to see, I hear a soft muttering: ìSamís acold. Flibbertigibbet! Poor Sam’s acold’
‘Tis a pitiful young soul driven mad by lack of warmth and the incessant rain that forms a solid barrier around us. The only other sounds that greet my searching ears is a crack of thunder and the far-off cry of a Polish man: ìI am good guy!î
Wait! Do mine eyes deceive me or is that Tavish upon the high ropes? Could it be? But, alas, my vision leaves with the lighting and I am again clouded in darkness, soaked through and through.
And thus the year beginnith.