In retrospect the couple nigel and nigella were reflecting on their mosaic life that transcended the freakish.
In a mist drenched and fluctuating sun dispersed town with scant employment, and that plethora of minimal short term contract work.
The apparently genial and eccentric inhabitants were in a quintessential jokes and capers quandary.
Dark grey shale ribbed stone stark dwellings one felt might collapse with a finger prod but didn’t quite!
Yet!
Windows bear the tarnished realm of conformity that might stifle atmospheres but didn’t quench drole alignment.
Streets that wove interstitially whose most elevated distinctive mark was its ennui on rewind.
A laughable yet solemn cliquish hub wedged in between a brambled array of disrupted forest leaf wilt and rabid limp green wet knotted pastures.
Nigella had a short story shortlisted in a dimlit attic of a local newspaper with the title A day in the life of a donkey.
Nigel was a junior cast member in a fringe drama on a meagre shoestring budget that had now you see it now don’t short run then vanished without the most minimal of warnings.
Based on this animal pet theme.
Perhaps the portrayal might have been a tad gauche and slapdash in its delivery.
The humour a little too corny even thorny for seats scattered like seeds audience in an overshadowed, out of the way, dust speck town which simultaneously seemed to be playing reuse second fiddle in the context of up to date innovations.
There was also the tantalising magnetic lure of a major urban catchment area and its kinetic glow where there now appeared to be a perceptible impulsive swing away from this midget type village or small town yet somehow dense area that was at once a mortise lock gazing in on itself yet had this twist and turn yen to expand exponentially.
“Strange that day, Nigel, you know when I saw that donkey in the field.
It was a bumpy field very uneven, it was raised, elevated and had this tilt.
Most unusual, it had this human facet, almost as if it was on the verge of peering down on the village.”