Monday, March 13, 2006

There's something about a girl in a tin helmet

I should be at home. What am I doing here, waiting for an operation that may never take place? I haven't seen hide nor hair of Professor Nyfenfork for over a week now.

The ground will be softening in the garden, preparing to yield up its treasures. Last year we were in the right place at the right time and managed to bring out two Hurricanes and a Spitfire. The former were old lead models, but the latter was life-sized and full of bullet holes.

The pilot we found on the edge of the lake some time afterwards. I don't mind telling you it took some talking to convince the poor sod that he was, in fact, dead.


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