Tuesday, January 23, 2007
In my dreams, somewhere on Branscombe beach, a ubiquitously bobble-hatted treasure hunter continues to comb the ground with a metal detector, oblivious to the sea’s most recent bounty of BMWs, wine barrels, laptops and nappies (oh wait, they were there already). Unperturbed by this latest strain of Clondyke fever he calmly ignores the looters and their tractors in his search for historically relevant old kettles. God bless you, noble sir, may these scavenging hyenas soon recall your most humble lesson - it's the search that enlightens, not the score.
Now, did anyone see any grog wash up?