The cold snap was still in force when I woke, no surprises there. If a chilly bit of weather is going to go to the sort of effort needed to cool down a south-eastern swamp, it was going to hang about for a bit.
I decided to do some long-planned, long put-off work on the inside of the cottage. Give it a bit of a spring clean, then update the mural on the wall by the bed.
At least I would, once I’d managed to locate my broom. Someone or something had clearly wandered off with it.
Probably one of the kids who’d come by with their ma a day or so back. No doubt they’d discovered by now that it didn’t fly.
I tramped out to the forest, to find a replacement branch and twigs. Quite why storytellers had to tell impressionable children that witches flew about on brooms is beyond me. I mean, the least they could do is spread the rumour that the flying magic had to be built up by sweeping – give their poor mothers a bit of a helping hand, but no. Just encourage them to steal other people’s cleaning implements.
I managed to find a decent enough branch. Probably better than my old me if I’m honest but it doesn’t make the situation any less irritating.
A good-sized bunch of twigs and some twine and i had myself a replacement broom. It’s much easier to carry a bundle of twine out, than a branch and an armful of twigs back.
Overhead, clouds and mist battled with the sun. I paused, foreboding filling me. Yes, there it was, that blasted double rainbow. Damn, what trouble was it going to bring this time?
The DNA of Stories 