Running Stupid*

The Internet is a bit ropey here do bear with me.  Message from Seb:

“Hello lovely.  Glad your enjoying yourself.”

Sigh.  He went to a Top Public School.  Even if all he did there was “rugby, fighting and drinking.”  He could have learned the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’, one might think.

On holiday.  Have unpacked.  Had to ask for extra hangers, not for own dresses – left most of them at home – but for brother’s twenty shirts.

Wake up this morning at 7.20am which is a pretty good sleep-right-through.  First one for ages.  Maybe is because brother is in the next room and he is a calming influence.

Or he’s meant to be there.  On waking, I find that he’s been kidnapped.  Call Dad.

“Dad, have you got my brother with you?” I say.

“I thought you didn’t want to be disturbed?  He’s probably gone for a run,” Dad says.

“This is me phoning you,” I say.  “Well he’s not there.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Dad says.  “See you at breakfast.”

Hmmmm but what if he has been kidnapped, I think, hauling my over-houmoussed self through to the bathroom.  So much for bikini-body: appear to have swallowed a beach ball.  Or a small island.  Ah, what is this written on sheet of paper and propped up against the mirror:

“T, have gone for a run xxx”

Phew!

Happy Friday everyone!

*2014.  James Kipling.  Suspense thriller mystery.

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