Enhance Your Outdoor Space

Western blocks are there, look, just on the brow of the hill, smoke rising from the chimneys which must be the sign for breakfast. Coming?

For breakfast? With him? Coming?

I checked my watch, fiddled with my hat, muttered something about wanting to do a piss. And then walked away. Walked right away.

The spatter of bacon leaves. Fat, I mean. The spatter of sausage juice, its spray from fork holes even though I expressly told the girl, that girl there, not to prick them. What did I tell you about the fucking sausages? Eh?

I only meant to turn the sausages. They kept slipping. So I gently stabbed them, that’s all, just so I could get a grip. Under my breath: moaning fat cunt.

As it turned out, I did, in fact, need a piss. Which was lucky as I saw him looking out at me from the window, from the Western block. So I showed him. Turned and pissed on the grass, just for him to see. Steam too, that was good. Piss spatter. He waved his sausage at me.

Rows of tables, benches running just beneath. Knees tight together and bare, in shorts. Metal plates, forks and knives, plastic cups. Sausages, bacon, scrambled eggs, tea and toast. And boiled tomatoes. Mushrooms. Black pudding. Marvellous.

After breakfast we decamped (decamped, I ask you) to the borders. Where we waited. The usual thing. We waited, we watched, we listened. Nothing. A slight rustle maybe. The wind. One of those birds from the nearby aviary. We should have shot it down.

And so, later, the smoke rising from the chimneys in the Western block - a good indication of dinner. Look, he said, there’s smoke rising from the chimneys of the Western block. It must be time for dinner. Coming?