It must have been cold in Susan Morrison’s bed and breakfast because TPR was wearing JH’s woollen beanie hat in bed (while JH slept on the floor beside us).
It was a dangerous trek across the field to breakfast the next morning. The third day I slipped, fell under the barbed wire fence, and slid all the way down the grass bank to the edge of the snake-infested river. I tried to climb back up again, but the bank was too steep and slippery. My only option was to jump in the water and swim to the dining room.
TPR could not leave me to brave the river and the snakes alone, so he joined me in the water too. We drifted along with the flow quite happily until we reached a high weir. The fast flowing torrent here was highly dangerous and we needed to get out – fast!
Back on land again we raided the cubicles in the public swimming baths for a couple of discarded towels. We had surely missed breakfast, but at least we were out of the water.
A few days later, safely back at home in our enormous mansion, we learnt that the bed and breakfast was a front. The proprietor was a murderess whose habit was to stack up the multiple rotting corpses of her ‘guests’ in otherwise unoccupied beds. Even though she hadn’t managed to kill us, she still sent us a bill for three nights accommodation (including breakfast). This infuriated TPR.
Dreamaticus 