FAREWELL TO ALL THAT (6)
The Priestess sucked the cork from a litre flask of Primitivo di Manduria and spat it on the floor.
'Now, this caravan thing . . .'
'There are two metal posts dug deep in the ground, 96.8 metres apart. You can rig up a slack-line (it don't hurt the trees). Pull it tight, ratchet hard, that's the art.'
The Priestess bit the end off a Robusto, and reached for a match.
Then, she sniped:
'Now, look here me Dearie, I'm sick of this stuff; sick to death of it (bored of it, too). You're going away for a couple of months. It's not like you're fucking Thoreau.
'So, you think you're unique; all this caravan chic. Just don't splash on the chemical loo.'
