Dear Diary,
We stopped somewhere a couple of hours north of Southampton at a service station. After strolling out and wolfing down a burger (an almost guilty break from Janie's vegetarian fare) I decided to sneak off and have a stroll somewhere amidst nature. Besides the noise of the motorway, beyond the ring road encircling this road island of repose, a report echoed through the trees. Two shots ring out, everysoften. They came from a low calibre rifle, not big enough to be a 4-10 or a 12-bore. I must have heard a hundred shots whilst I've been sat here. He must have run out of ammo or been caught, or perhaps just become bored; as the twin reports have ceased sounding.
Anyway, it reminds me of when I was sat at Pangloss' museum-maison. It was a quiet early evening in the mountains. As we sat and philosophized, a similar sound, sharp shots rang out across the otherwise peaceful mountain valley, studded with pines and wild-flowers. (Excuse my spelling and French grammar - I might speak the tongue but I sure can't write it well enough). Immediately upon hearing the bullets fired, somewhat startled I said:
Max: "Ques que sait?" (What was that?)
Pangloss: "C'est un fou." (It's some madman.)
Max: "Quoi?" (What?)
Pangloss: "C'est un fou, c'est tout. Un fou." (It's just a madman is all.)
Evidently he cares for animals a great deal. The shots have started again. Half an hour more must I endure the sound of gun-toting madmen. At least the barrel is not aimed at me momentarily.
Maxx.
