Wroodle 1

Getting to know oneself is a peculiar business, particularly when you didn't set out to find out anything at all. My road to self discovery started on a Sunday evening in August when I was 17. I was sitting on the edge of an abandoned world war two bunker that was cut into the edge of a field at the top of the hill, about a mile from where I lived. James and I regularly used to hang out there, looking out at the view of the ever changing farmland that stretched out beneath us as far as we could see. I'd brought a small transistor radio with me, and had found a fairly distant station to listen to.

“So what have you got planned for next week?” James asked,

“Not a lot,” I thought for a moment, considering the endless possibilities that could unfold in the week,

“I was thinking of taking my bike down to the old railway line, and following it to the old quarry.”

“Is there anything worth seeing out there?”

“I don't know. That's why I want to have a look. What were you thinking of doing?”

James shrugged. I took that to mean that he was thinking of following me. I didn't mind. James could look after himself, and would be good company.

The radio crackled loudly, and there was a bright flash that tore across the sky, lighting up the bunker.

“Heads up,” James remarked.

The rumble of thunder rolled down the valley.

“I think that concludes tonight's proceedings,” I sighed as large raindrops splashed onto the dry earth.

“Looks like we'll be getting wet,”