A poster on the bus advertised the heats for the local yodelling festival. Not the festival itself, but the pre-competition to allow people to apply for the competition itself.
One of them was asleep on my front; the other one tugged at my hand, slouching her way down the wet, cobbled street. Both were deathly tired.
York is a wonderful city to get lost in: every twist and wrong turn opens up a square, an arcade or a marketplace. I thoroughly recommend getting lost in York at any time of the year.
I like a drink, and I always have. The problem is what comes the following day.
I have always feared social situations, and I have always taken any action I could to avoid new situations.
We boarded in a slowly moving queue, with a chattering four year old entertaining the crowds. It was simply a question of being told where we should be going, and then ending up there.