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Fit as a fiddle

The bruises have not quite faded but I decided to get on my bike this morning and test the body out, and everything seems to be working fine - except my brain.  I decided to take a short cut to the little supermarket by following a path that goes along the river.  Coming to an unfamiliar crossroads I decided to cross straight over.  An hour later I was well and truly lost.  French country roads don't have signs so the sun has to be a guide and any familiar distant landmarks.  All I could see was fields and trees, no church spires or familiar farms and clouds covered any sign of the sun.  I spotted a farmer on his tractor (what would we do without them?) and asked where I was.  Ok wrong question so I asked where my village was.  He pointed down a track and said keep going, keep going and you will find it.  How far do you think it is?  Wrong question again.  Oh well I set off wondering if I would be home before sunset.  After about an hour and a half I saw the church spire, hopefully in my village but frankly it could have been anywhere.  I don't know where I had been but I was thankful to see my ugly old village in front of me.  I went into the little supermarket and surprise, the till was in place and working.  The assistant was still looking up all the prices on a piece of paper but Rome wasn't built in a day.

Have you noticed that no-one talks about Brexit now, apart from the politicians?  Whether you voted leave or remain we have all been caught up in a whirlpool that goes round and round, occasionally spewing out another idea, another failure or even another politician but nothing can stop it, or Parliament.  Where is Guy Fawkes when you need him?

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