Chapter Thirty-One
The Return Of The Pyramid
If you don't listen to your own inner guidance, it will stop talking.
Rodger, Shifty, Betty and I moved the paintings into Shifty’s fiat while the Bag Lady held the tee pee open. It was a slick operation, completed under the duress of excessive mud, two more falls by Shifty and a “mind the bloody paintings,” shout by Rodger; while Puss licked the tarmac like it was ice cream.
Later on in the week, Shifty and Rodger appeared, and Rodger and I picked up the pieces of the shed and handed them to Shifty, who tossed them like Frisbees across the garden onto a bonfire.
“That is what that deserves,” he shouted, with unnecessary enthusiasm. While the Bag Lady fried fish and potatoes and stewed a pot of tea on her more sedate camp fire which now had
