It’s not often that a saucy gentleman in a jaunty mustache tips his hat at you outside of a bar. On a cobblestone street.
Ok. In all honesty this happens more than I like to admit. I am starting to wonder if my “hair is larger than the rest of my body” attracts people who like to twirl their villain mustaches. Some people attract “the norm” while I am a gravitational pull to those that enjoy top hats and wicked “Muah Ha Ha!!” laughs.
The sight of this gentleman outside of the bar has almost distracted me from todays postcard! Forgive us!
Today we found ourselves in some sort of small town that seems to have stopped evolving into the shiny contemporary city styles you see today somewhere around the time when mutton chops were a thing. Not complaining because I enjoy having a pint or two someplace that is untouched by the whole tweeter facebot era.
I mean…you need to just take a look at their local grocery store to really understand that this small village hasn’t grasped the concept of healthy living and bring your own bags to save the planet. In place of those shiny ads telling you to eat the latest in low-cal no fat half-Caff protein sticks in a can the store explains just how much tobacco you can purchase.
After purchasing five pounds of loose leaf tea, a box of cigars, a bucket of flour, and goat feed (you never know when you might need goat feed!) I could not bring myself to drive off for the evening. Mr. C. Cow had found a place that sold villain twirling mustaches and hand crank coffee grinders so he also did not want to travel on into the night. Purchases securely placed in the camper we forged onward to the local hotel.
All of this exposure to pounds of dry goods, pints of beer, mutton chops, and the overwhelming feeling that I might need to learn how to shoe a horse (a valuable skill in this town) I feel we might need to leave after we spend the night. I’m afraid that if we stay any longer Mr. C. Cow might take up blacksmithing. I would have to learn how to play ragtime on the piano while Mr. C. dances for pennies.
To think that a day that started out with a mustached villain tipping his hat somehow ended up with us having to haul around giant sacks full of goat feed in a camper. Sometimes, when I look back at what we’ve written in our postcards, I am not exactly sure how we got here. All I know is that we need to leave.
And maybe find one of those protein sticks in a can.
Second Life Location: Glastonbury (M)