Your writer of pulp, with help from distant places and with the assistance of an Afon-Bedd orderly who has a truly horrible mustache, has managed at last to plant our hero firmly at a lunch table for four opposite Saint Chad.
And real time coverage of the outdoors suggests sunshine. Not the kind of
sunshine that casts distinct shadows, rather it looks like a sunshine that's
making a pathetic effort. Might even be worthwhile going outside to give it an