premature wist

Argus tree


I'll miss Stuart with the asymmetrical mohawk who owns the Black Medicine coffee shop, and the grinny fellow in the deerstalker and vest who's runs the Chocolate Tree, the gaps in his teeth so wide, i could slot pound coins into his vending-machine smile.

I'll miss the weird beggar who sits on an afghan outside the co-op and asks for 5p, the one who's a dead ringer for one of those extras on Deadwood.

I'll miss the barrista who plays Gillian Welch every morning and sings along in a Scots accent.

I'll miss the hog carving booth at the farmer's market, the castle on the hill, the drunk teenagers playing six-hole one-club golf on the links in the afternoons.

I'll miss rows of Victorian chimneypots and sooty facades, pubs built in the 15th century, thistle brocade on the walls and Thomas the barman at Henrick's.

I'll miss "cheers" instead of "thank you" or "you're welcome," and small portions being wee.

How quickly i've developed local routines.