James, Black Steve and the bag of £5 notes.

Went to another pub to look for a job. This time in a the small village of St. Nicholas at Wade. They didn't have a job there, and sadly, neither did anywhere else. But what it did have, was James [not his real name!]. He was the sole regular in the pub and overheard my conversation and was very, very confused. He thought I was homeless, destitute and desperate. Technically yes, but actually no. We, the barmaid and I convinced him that I was perfectly fine sleeping in the car. James would hear none of it. He insisted I stay in his flat. And so I did. Now before you fall off your chair panicking, I should mention that James is 74 years young. I'm mad, not flipping insane. So after dropping my friend home, I went to his house at 5pm.

The first thing he did was show me my room and how to use the shower etc. Then he made me dinner. And for me, that was the greatest thing ever. Words cannot express how much I hate cooking. Now for the first crazy part, because I think he is far crazier than me. At 6pm, he went to bed, snoring like a dying cow. He sleeps for 13 hours a night. You think that's crazy? At 7 the next morning he went to work, and left me sleeping in the flat, with the only key and instructions to leave it under the mat if I go out. I know. His level of trust is somewhere between naïve and commendable. Thankfully, I'm an honest person. When he came back from his 3-hours-a-week-job he found me cleaning the fridge. Better than me cleaning him out. I'm still shocked and this is my 3rd night. And third dinner :D

Every day he goes to the pub. So, we went back the same pub for a drink and had the...pleasure... of meeting Black Steve. Yep, that's right, Black Steve He's the only black person in the surrounding villages, and yes, he's even more racist than me. And yet he was the epitome of what you'd dislike about Caribbean people. Loud, vulgar, blunt and callous. Apparently, according to Steve, I can earn a few quid selling my pussy and he'd happily be my first customer. I kindly pointed out that with a stomach that big, he couldn't find it anyway. I don't think black Steve was ready for half-black me.  He bought me a drink in reparation. On another note, I've been shamed beyond all belief. I've been out drunk twice by pensioners. Pensioners! By 12:30, he'd drank 5 pints in two different pubs. And then, he drove us home. I suggested he'd had too many, but apparently drinking and driving doesn't apply to villages. I'm not dead, so that was a perk. I can't drink at that time of the day. And I certainly can't drive. And this brings us to my adventures on foot.

To start, why do these country folk hate pavements? Never thought I'd miss a pavement, especially as London's are full of all kinds of crap. So I'm walking down country lanes facing the direction of traffic, a very sensible tip I'd learnt from the natives. Still scary as shit, as those nutters drive 40mph round blind bends. Bends which I'm trying to walk around. Up a hill. My legs have divorced me. I don't 'do' walking and all of a sudden I've done a few miles, up and down hills my car would've cried over. But again, totally worth it. The view of the River Stroud was mesmerising, the sound calming and the smell, surprisingly soothing. Found a field of rapeseed. That'd be the yellow flowers you see growing in every other field. Then the hoarder with chickens living in an old red phone box. Then mad-foreign-cancer-lady picking tiny apples from a tree pointing to a mole on her face. Billions more rabbits and 2 dead mice.

One shop in the village. Literally, and one pub with strange opening hours. And it's not the typical London 11am-11pm. Finally remembered I can Bluetooth pictures from Mobily to Nexy, so you can see them yourself, attached somewhere to this post. Also included is the River Stroud, the rapeseed field, and the car of a crazy woman, who was in the doctors making an appointment, with the door open, keys in the ignition and the engine running. If I could drive manual, I'd have parked it down the road to freak her out. More incentive to learn.

And now for the bag of £5 notes. I went to a fantastic pub called the Grove Ferry Inn, the couple who owned it were very friendly and she even gave me a free chef-made peppermint crème. It's on the river, great vibes and décor with a goat, two pigs and 12 chickens. Not that you'd need them for a drink, so I recommend the leather wing-back chairs. I asked for a job. Didn't have one, but they had a hilarious story. A woman was helping a pensioner reverse out of the car park. He then proceeded to knock her down, smash into two parked cars, panicked and then drove into the pub. And I mean into the pub. As demonstrated by the large hole in the wall. The funniest part? The lady that was knocked down, rang as I was there, some two weeks later, to ask if they found her plastic bag with £5 notes in it. In their defence, they didn't think it was as hilarious as I did, but I'm a little warped.