Skrumpkin should have been worried by the fog, but oddly he wasn’t. For one thing, the Boss had just told him he’d be alright. Q.E.D. BUT! Thre was something oddly comforting about the fog. Perhaps it was because he’d grown up alongside a stream down in Hampshire, and if it was going to be misty anywhere it was there, right outside his door. Fog was his second favorite inclement weather, right after snow.

And then there was also the strangely reassuring thought that if he made any mistakes, nobody in the stands would be able to see. And the more he thought about that, the better he felt. Because when it came right down to it, his problem had never been not being able to see the attackers, it was being able to second guess them as they came swerving and passing down the pitch. And that was the Good Thing about fog, he decided. He might not know where they were coming from, but they wouldn’t know where they were going, either. And if anything, that put the advantage in his hands. Before they could get close enough to shoot, he’d be close enough to block.

Q.E.D. Fog was good. Skrumpkin hoped it got thicker.

 


Not Getting Any Younger