Though the Jones has left these parts and is even now speeding his wingful way in the direction o’th’capital, the smell of his crusty farts lingers in my room like a small piece of poetry, reminding me that he is but newly gone, the pans in the kitchen still wet with the washing up after our combined culinary fiestas.
Everyone I’ve asked whose opinion matters (the jones, me) indicates that this was one of the most successful Exeter visits yet made by the Italian Stallion. To further prelong the glory, I hereby recount in your direction the rough calendar of activities of the last few days, that future generations (me in two months) may know what transpired here…
Wednesday, June 7th
4ish The Jones dismounts his train and is found wandering Queen Street with nothing but a guitar case and a Sherlock Holmes style travelling bag he calls “Sherlock” or sometimes “Holmes”. We