Bohemia Village Voice

Al Capone

Another beautiful Sunday. It’s really pleasant here. The birds are singing their little hearts out, the white fluffy clouds are scudding across the blue sky, the eels are slithering over the muddy seabed.
There’s no nicer way to spend a warm, bright, summer’s day than strolling over to France – along the bottom of the sea. It can get chilly, but I always carry a spare jumper. And I never forget to take my Thermos flask of tea and a small box of sandwiches.
I can’t think why more people don’t enjoy the delights of sea-floor walking. The first time I tried it, I was spluttering and coughing, finding it impossible to get used to breathing under water. But it’s easy: you don’t need any fancy kit, just a good pair of lungs – and a bit of faith.
If you like solitude, I can recommend a few hours stroll over the English Channel. I never meet a soul – but many a sole – ha, ha. I find the crabs the most interesting people to talk to. I’ve made quite a few friends. They all know me. ‘Here comes Arthur’ they say. That’s me, Arthur Thompson.
Time for a break, I think. Here’s a nice bench. Unpack the flask and sarnies. Just a minute, where have all the crabs gone? And the fish? Something must have scared them away. This is odd. And what’s even odder is that a nice-looking woman with a kind face is walking straight towards me over the grass. As she bends forward, I can see right down her white blouse.
‘I thought I might find you in the garden, Mr Thompson, it’s time for your three o’clock meds.’