On weird charity shops
"That," I said as we drove through the desolate wastes of Easton, "is the weirdest charity shop I have ever seen."
And frankly, on the Island of Portland (Motto: "Keeping it weird, marrying your cousin"), you've got to be truly weird to stand out from the aunt-licking crowd.
"What's so weird about that... oh," says The Boy as eyes clap onto a lock-up seeming constructed out of railway sleepers, corrugated iron and parts from a local quarry.
The sign above the door betrays all: "Feral Cat Shop".
"As a matter of fact," I say, steering the car back toward the safety of the mainland, "I'm not entirely sure if it IS a charity shop."
"Why?" he asks, "What do they sell there?"
"Feral cats, obviously. Feral cats, large nets and first aid kits."
We drive on in silence.
"And books of feral cat recipes."