Chapter 13

The Witchfynder general finds that his god can even intervene through social media

Skreebleton in the south west. Father Bennett, the Witchfynder general was quickly on to his connections in the police force and other government departments and he was close to locating his man. He’d been seen in the small town of Frome, mixing with the kind of scum his pagan sort was prone to. Sat behind the wheel of his black jaguar with young brother Tobin at his side he felt confident that he would soon find his man and following the ‘interview’ he had planned for the shaman would soon be onto the other shaman Lipton and the fraudulent apostate who was calling himself Christ. Bennett had spent his whole life in the various parts of the church and knew more about Jesus than anyone he had ever met. The messiah would one day return but he would not be mixing with the destitute, the street people and travellers, the prostitutes and sinners. No! He would make himself known to the pope and the Vatican and the world through the Catholic Church. Once he had this pretender a few questions on scripture would reveal him as a charlatan and one who would require subjecting to the tests and rituals of the Witchfynders who had rid the world of the cancer that the devil himself spread. Bennett gripped the steering wheel tighter, felt a stirring in his trousers as he thought of the punishment he would soon be dealing out. His right hand slipped into his pocket, the old trick father Erasmus had taught him, through the hole in his trouser pocket where he rapped a tuft of pubic hair around his thumb and finger be plucking his tuft of hair. The pain brought him back to earth. He pressed the button that lowered his window from where he threw the small bunch of hair.

“What was that Father Bennett” brother Tobin asked as he caught a glimpse of the small black nest of hair as it left the window and was ripped away by the speed of the car.

“Oh, just a little trick I was taught by the Witchfynder who was my mentor. Perhaps I’ll induct you into the small ritual one day.”

Brother Tobin knew not to enquire further and focused on the road ahead for a moment before asking his master a question he had always been curious about.

“I heard that you had studied your craft under father Erasmus. He is a legend to us younger Witchfynders. We hear tell he sent over three score demons and some hundred witches to boot.”

“Young brother Tobin. It is not by numbers alone that we can measure a man’s achievements. Erasmus taught me a great deal. I witnessed him as he applied his craft with an elegance that few could ever hope to match. You know the lances in the chapel?”

Tobin nodded. He had thought they were mere decoration.

“We’d discovered a cluster of harlots, heavily under Satans influence. Each was cleansed with those lances. Sharpened by my own hand. Eight feet in length they stand. Erasmus lay each strumpet down across the altar and smite them clean. Entering by the very orifice they had made their trade to sell. Full of the lords strength he rammed them clean of sin until the sharpened tips protruded a clear twelve inches through the top of their skulls. I was a young Witchfynder back then, much like you are now and I confess that the devil found me squeamish and I vomitted on to the chapel floor. Erasmus instructed me to clean up after his holy work was done. I learned a lesson that day. They were but a small coven of witches though all confessed to being in the employ of Satan before devil was driven out of them.”

Tobin swallowed. He wondered if he was up to the job. Of course father Bennett was testing the young lad, to make sure he was committed to the lord’s work and not just another who succumbed to the romance of the profession. He would need Tobin to be up to speed when it came to tackling the two shaman, both pagans and witches and the charlatan who called himself Christ. Father Bennett knew he had struck a chord with his young apprentice. Best reassure the lad.

“But Erasmus was old school. Weve moved on now. In the boot of my car I have two pump action shotguns. Both have been blessed by the pope himself. Last night while you were out for fast food. Yes! I saw you.”

Brother Tobin blushed. He thought he had got away with it. Nevertheless the Witchfynder general appeared to be in good spirits and did not admonish the boy.

“While you were soiling your body with saturated fats I emptied twenty cartridges, replacing the lead shot with silver shot and each I dipped in holy water. In the unlikely event that these fail us there is my trusty crossbow. The bolts I use are also engineered from silver. Should we be forced to engage in hand to hand combat I also have a pair of silver bladed knives one of which I suggest we conceal in our boots. You must follow my lead. Do as I say and our mission will undoubtedly be successful. It is crucial that we get confessions from all three of our targets. We will be working as a team and I’m hoping to catch them on the hop. As far as we’ve been able to establish the charlatan and the shaman known as Lipton are already back together. Lipton has recently been released from a mental hospital but don’t succumb to any complacency. He has been dabbling in witchcraft his entire adult life and may well have a few tricks up his sleeve. Skree may as yet be unaware that his partner in the dark arts survived their pagan mission that I told you to read up on. As for the fake Christ he could well be under the complete delusion of his identity.

So master Tobin! Do you feel up to the task ahead? Follow my lead and we should come out of this unscathed. Our names will go down in the history of our secret craft.”

Tobin felt a wave of honour spread throughout his body. Beginning in the soles of his feet and working its way through his legs, into his torso and deep into his heart and out through his head.

“Father Bennett. I am honoured to be chosen as your assistant on this mission. I grasp the magnitude and understand the responsibility being placed upon me. My whole life has been training for this day and the days ahead. It will be an honour to serve the lord god, our father. And to be a small part in the history of the Witchfynder. Long may our branch of the church continue to be the sword with which the father cuts down the devil’s ungodly work.”

Father Bennett felt proud. He had been right to place his trust in the young Witchfynder. He knew that brother Tobin was ready and would not let him down.

Once their conversation died down and the focus returned to the road Bennett considered the information he had gleaned from his many sources. A Mr Skreebletton had been pulled over by a police car three days ago near Frome in Somerset. The two coppers began to look through his details but were called away to a domestic violence incident before they had chance to study his details. It later proved to be a false name and a fake license. Skreebleton was the name that Rupert Bunsen had come to know his saviour as. His stay had been short following the disaster that saw the deaths of many of the most wealthy people on the planet. Glancing over at his assistant Bennett saw Tobin had returned to scrolling through his phone. Daylight was by now fading and it seemed likely they would have to find a hotel for the night.

Tobin had gradually slumped down into the jaguars leather seat but something he had seen on his phone brought him upright and focused.

“Father Bennett! Look at this!”

“Brother Tobin! You know how I feel about this socialist media!”

“No look! It’s them! I was just checking through my instagram followers. I have this troll who mocks me for my religious piety yet continues to follow! He’s called Magno! I just took a look at his instagram feed. There’s a short he’s posted! Only fifteen seconds but it has to be two of the pagans we’re looking for!”

Tobin replayed the video. It was of a camp fire. One guy dressed in dirty black clothes laughed as another guy spoke to the small group. AI had translated what the speaker was saying. A filthy looking man with longish hair and a beard. A chunk of his face was missing revealing a rictus grin of exposed teeth. “Anyway, I don’t know if you’ve ever eaten a whole quarter of Lebanese hashish but I tell you, I was well tripped out. This Pompous Pillock, Pontias Pilote, the highest ranking Roman of the occupying army. ‘Are you the son of god’ he asks. I got the giggles really badly and couldn’t help taking the piss. ‘What do you think? If you think I am the son of god then I guess I must be.”

A black teenager in designer sportswear laughed along with the pirate like character who was taking a deep pull on a glass crack pipe. “Do you claim to be the king of the Jews too?”

Here the short video looped and began again.

Bennett pulled the jaguar to a standstill in a lay-by behind a lorry.

“Play it again Tobin.”

The two Witchfynders sat through the video fifteen times. Pausing it occasionally to comment on background details. After a while Bennett sat back. God is pointing us towards them.

He knew Lipton had not long been released from a mental hospital close to Minehead. Opening a large road atlas Bennett took his fountain pen from his inside pocket. He drew a cross where Skreebleton had been pulled and another roughly where he knew the nut house to be. Using a strip of card torn from the atlases cover as a straight edge drew a line between the two.

“I can hear passing traffic.”

“They’re camped on a roundabout! We’ve got the bastards!” Tobin enthused.

Bennett looked him deep in the eyes.

“We’re not far off! Let the hunt begin.”

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Chapter 12

Skree scoring again in Glastonbury

I hate getting paid at midnight. Which government knobhead came up with that one? The only things open at midnight out here in the sticks are drug dealers. It’s like during Covid. The coke dealers were unphased by it and it was business as usual. Only now they were delivering and once that pattern was established it never changed. But for gear it was slightly different. The North Somerset towns, Radstock, Frome and to a lesser extent Glastonbury had avoided the county lines model that seemed to excite the police and media. The smack scene was deeply established and dealers had been plying trade with out any trouble for two decades before the county lines became a thing. Each had a tight network of friends and associates and were essentially supporting their own habit. Personally I’d always rather score off someone who took the stuff too. How else do you know how good your tackle is? When the white came in, much later than back in Leeds where I was from where you scored both off runners. The number would be valued and sometimes sold. You’d order two whiskey and a brandy. So now that white had taken over in Somerset there were a lot of crackheads who didn’t do gear. And most bought powder and washed it up themselves. Either with bicarbonate of soda that binds to the coke to crack. Or using ammonia which is essentially free basing. Most would rinse it a couple of times to get rid of the ammonia but some pipes I’ve been given I thought my lungs were going to collapse. Ammonia is a poison. I can remember my grandad helping us out with our butterfly boards by putting them in a jar with some ammonia soaked in cotton wool that gassed them before we pinned them to our boards. Fuck! That’s so 70s. We had birds egg collections too. No one, well no one sensible would do that now. Instead I use an iPhone to photograph butterflies and moths.

So having just been paid all I could find was white. Five or six places. But no gear anywhere. I thought I’d sorted some down in Glastonbury but by the time I was there the cunts phone was off. I desperately rang around starting to rattle as the thought of no gear until tomorrow lunchtime when my usual dealers came on. Scrolling through my numbers I found Steph who lives in Glastonbury and though not a dealer knew what was where, especially if I could drop her a stone off. But even she struggled to think of anyone I hadn’t already tried.

“Are you in a motor?”

“Yes. Have you got someone?”

“Beamer down in Bridgewater. He’s usually on all night or one of his runners will be.”

“Will he serve me? I’ve never met him I don’t think.”

Fuck! It was a bit of a drive and it was already 1:45am.

“He’ll be fine. I’ll ring him first to let him know that you’re ok. Can you drop me something off on your way back for setting it up?”

“Yep! Ring me back when you’ve rung him.”

I was definitely starting to cluck now. I crossed my fingers as I waited for her to ring me back. A car slowly pulled past. The first I’d seen in the last hour. They looked shifty and definitely not police. Two minutes passed. Where the fuck had she got to? I was starting to think this was not a goer.

My phone lit up with Stephs number.

“What’s he say?”

“Sounded a bit weird. He’s on some big roundabout just at the Hinckley Point turn off. I could hear a few voices but he says it’s sound. Good gear and top white he reckons. I’ll text you his number. Don’t forget me in your will.”

“Thank you so much! I’ll not forget you. You’ve saved my life!”

Thank fuck! It was a good drive but if the quality was what she said I’d be happy. It was a trick of mine back in the day when I used to hitch hike a lot. Big roundabouts were usually full of thick shrubs and trees that gave you cover from any passing drivers or pedestrians and no one goes on to them apart from occasional council landscape gardeners. Made me think of Lipton. I’d shown him the trick and we’d spent a few nights camped out on roundabouts.

With the last traces of the gear wearing off I began to get a bit emotional. What a crazy mission they’d embarked on with the Clun Druid lads and their witches. We’d done it. Succeeded in smashing Rupert Bunsens Noah project. I felt survivor guilt. I’d seen Christ blown to pieces. Even he surely couldn’t survive that. And through the psychedelic haze I’d seen the rest pulled under as the demon eel hybrid the girls had summoned up , a seething mass of conger eels drawn together into a huge sea serpent that viciously tore its way through the hole blown into the side of the spaceship, eating all and everyone it could find. It was all a little hazy. As usual it was me that was using my shamanic condition to pull at the thin dimensional membranes to ensure the demon could maintain itself in our dimension. I’d held it for as long as I could and I could see the majority of passengers were eaten alive but finally the strength of my state was fading and I could hold out no longer. I climbed aboard a pallet that had been thrown from the boat Lipton was piloting and as it dawned on me that the people I loved most were now gone I saw none other than the architect of the crazy scheme flapping about, unable to swim and likely would have died had I not pulled him out from the frothing waters.

Stephs text came through and I rang the number she had sent.

“Beamer? Steph just gave me your number. Is it ok to see you?”

“Yeah man! We’re on that roundabout.”

“Yes. She said. I know where you mean. Have you got both still?”

“You’ll have to be quick. I’m with two lunatic crusties and they’re caining my load at a hell of a rate. I’ll keep some back if you’re definitely coming.”

“I’ll be about an hour, tops. I’ll leave the car in a lay-by and come find you.”

“See you soon boss.”

Fucking sorted. Now I knew I was scoring the clucking subsided and I continued to reminisce about that day of madness. I got Bunsen ashore. His project was fucked and there’d been enough death already that day. He’d been a decent host. I’d managed to pretend that I’d been a ticket holder on his ship. At first he seemed a little suspicious but I knew enough to lie my way into his heart. I was unfamiliar with the cutlery lay out but affected a nonchalant demeanour and built a back story in snippets, returning to my room to convalesce and read the books he had in the guest room. He’d appeared to grow fond of me even, introducing me to the few survivors as the man who had pulled him from the sea. He even provided a private jet to take me home. I’d promised to keep in contact but fuck that.

These were still fresh memories and they filled my mind on the drive down to Bridgewater.

I parked the piquanto in a lay-by a short distance from the roundabout. The bushes and trees worked well and if I hadn’t already known I’d not have noticed the flicker of fire and the smoke above their fire. There was no traffic hardly and it was close to 3am now. I could hear voices. One a gruff laughter that sounded familiar and two that joked together in the street slang and the homogeneous accent shared now by teens and twenty year olds. I circled the bushes until I found a thin spot in the overgrowth and made my way into the firelight.

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chapter 11.

Jesus Christ settles in with Lipton on his roundabout hide away

If Lipton was honest he had no expectation that JC would be able to resurrect so profound had been his latest death. He had no reservations, he knew the messiah well and knew that he was who he said was. Nevertheless he had witnessed arguably his second closest friend after Skree blown in to easily a dozen pieces by the deranged copper who had followed them. It was possible that the mission they were committed to would have failed were it not for the intervention of a lunatic ex policeman, armed to the teeth and hell bent on killing the crew who had forged their links at the Bury Ditches hill fort rave. The loss of his shaman brother hurt the most. He doubted that he would ever get over his loss. As he carefully observed the aftermath of the destruction of Rupert Bunsens crazed attempt to leave the planet he had kept the yacht he had taken from Porlock Weir just out of distance. Bunsen would have his minions out searching the waters, just as he was to finish off any remaining terrorist warlocks and after two days it was clear that just himself and Brock, a Druid lad from Clun were the only survivors. Brock had lost two brothers and three sisters and to allow the pain of his personal grief to mar the pain the poor Druid was going through was not in his character. So they’d collected up the meat that had once been Christ in a builders sack and had shared the silence of the seas as they returned home. By the time they were close to Porlock Weir Lipton had lost his mind. He had given the Druid directions to return Christs parts to the traveller site and from there had slipped into a deep psychosis. But now, having the debauched hippie back had raised his spirits. Following the first night together on the roundabout Christ had mocked the pathetic amount of drugs Lipton had been able to share.

“Come on man! Stop winging about Skree! He would have thought it a good death. He certainly wouldn’t want you moaning about it. If I wallowed in the grief for each and every friend I’d lost I’d be fucked! People come and go. It’s the nature of the game.”

Lipton considered the advice he was being given and had to concede it was true. Skree would have been proud to have had one over on the grey bastards. He was probably the one who was most committed to the project. Lipton recalled how he was just about to commit suicide to test out the archangel bollocks when Skree had turned up. He hated the way people said that things happened for a reason. Of course they did but the reason invariably preceded the event and never foretold the future.

“You’re right! Let’s celebrate his life and the times we shared.”

Christs eyes lit up and he knew he had made his point.

“I’ve got a plan. The lads you scored off? Can you see them again?”

“Aye! I’ve got their number. I’ve no money mind.”

“Leave that to me. We’re going to buy everything they’ve got and have a session here tonight that would do Skree proud!”

Lipton kicked a little earth on to the embers of the fire and throwing his arm around his mates shoulder led the way from the roundabouts concealed centre to the edge of the two lanes of the roundabout where traffic was now quietening as the night began to fall.

“Take me to a corner shop. The dodgiest looking one you’ve seen in this shit hole of a town.”

Lipton had noticed a few 7-11 type shops run by Indian, Pakistani or Bangladeshi people during his mooches in to town. He’d used his shoplifting skills for the last few nights but it was only a matter of time before he would get noticed. Consequently he had registered the kind of establishments that sold cheap, strong lagers and ciders. The type of drink he preferred.

“Nip down Lidl and get a half dozen shopping trolleys. You’ll need a quid each.” Christ rummaged in the pockets of his filthy looking jeans and came out with easily thirty pound coins which he handed to Lipton.

“Go try that one. There’s a premier store round the block if you can’t get him to bite.”

Christ grinned back at Lipton. “Come on brother! How long do you think I’ve been at this game.”

Lipton nodded. The bedraggled freak, whose greasy hair formed a semi curtain through which he could see eyes that were on fire and the smile of the expert hussler. Fuck! Lipton almost wanted to put a bid in on what ever he was selling so seductive was his manner. With the most sophisticated of conmen the punter was fighting to be taken in.

He can’t have taken ten minutes to procure the shopping trolleys and in that ten minutes the stack of wine bottles the messiah had conjured up looked like it would fill a skip. New world reds, whites, champagne and a couple of bottles of every kind of wine that Lipton had ever seen were stacked in crates on the pavement. While he began to load the hawk in to the trolleys Christ slipped away and soon returned with not one but three brothers who ran a chain of off licences in the town. Bridgewater would not be short of a drink tonight. While the hussler who looked like he had not seen a bath or shower in at least a year did the deal, Lipton selected a half dozen choice bottles and tucked them in to a basket he’d grabbed along with the trolleys.

“Fucking sorted!”

Christ was in his element. He’d already popped a cork and sunk a half bottle of Moët et Chandon. He wiped his soot blackened hand across his face leaving a dark stripe that to Liptons eyes took on a feel of war paint. He’d had many a session with the king of sessions and despite his own immense tolerance to all drugs and alcohol had never come close to appearing less than a light weight when up against a man who could literally drink himself to death and wake up with a smile and reach for another bottle.

“Who’d you score the shots off last night?”

Christ waved a fistful of some two thousand pounds. “ Let’s get fucking slaughtered!”

Lipton was already on his mobile.

“Beamer? It’s me, Lipton. I saw you last night. I’m looking for a bundle .”

Beamer considered it for a while. Perhaps he could offload his stock, reload and punt it out.

“How much you after?”

“Look, it’s not my money but it’s four figures. Any chance you could come out to the roundabout? You know, where I said I was staying?”

Beamer had been burned before but the crusty just didn’t look the type. Lipton heard some negotiations in the slang that was now a national language spoken by all the shooters in towns and cities across the country.

“Yep! I’m bringing my proby. Magno! Ok?”

“Yep! No problem. Just bring your stock. We’re not going to rob you. We’ve had a touch and….well the mate who’s turned up…he doesn’t have much value for money. It’ll be worth your while. I guarantee you’ll make twice what you would just shotting out bits in the car park. You might even enjoy it. We’ve got a fire. My mate will pay for the drinks and weed you smoke.”

Fuck it! Beamer thought. It was a Tuesday night and they had barely covered their costs last night. Could be a laugh.

“You’re on then bro. See you on the roundabout.”

“Magno! How much have you got?”

“I’ve got five half teenths weighed out. About a dozen twenty’s of light and dark and a load of powder. What about you Beamer? Have you got enough to cover it?”

“I reckon so. I’m sick of feeling bait, waiting for the 5O. We can make more with these crusties.”

“Did you see that guy he was with? Fucking tramp! He hadn’t seen soap in years. But if he’s got the reddies. Who gives a fuck?”

Magno was looking down at his phone. Laughing at something he’d seen on instagram.

“Hey Beam? Check out this knobhead. I’ve been following him for a couple of days. The guys a fucking nun or something! Proper prick. Slaphead! How do they do that haircut man? Last post he was smiling next to a homeless bitch. Corpse there smoking and the idiots smiling selfie with a sad emoji! Fucking unreal.”

“You ought to leave that shit alone. Them fucking priesthood have proper connections.”

“Nah man! You ought to check him out. Brother Tobin him called. Piss funny man!”

Beamer rumbled through his pockets. Various ten shots and bags of other powders were there. They’d take these two hippies for all they had.

Christ stood in his classic pose. Cruciform. His bare feet were protected by a leather like sole that could crush glass bottles with ease. His jeans had not left his legs since the chunks of flesh had reentangled and blended once more. The stench of putrefaction still hung around him as his reanimation was not fully complete. His bare torso was clothed only by a long faded denim jacket. His outstretched palms still showed the stigmata that were his mark of authenticity. His greasy shoulder length hair and thin beard led up to his convoluted grin and beaming eyes.

“Come on then Lipton, and any other fucker who wants to come aboard! Let’s fucking have it!”

Soon Beamer and Magno were with the messiah and his shaman brother, all hell bent on raising hell.

“I am the resurrection! I am the one!”

Lipton couldn’t help but smile at his mate’s passion for life. He bid the pompous prick hand over some cash, grabbed a fistful of dollars and told the two shotters to stick close. Come back to his roundabout home and join in a session the like of which they would be telling of for the rest of their lives.

Back at Liptons roundabout encampment the fire blazed though passing traffic were oblivious to the session now taking place. Christ was in his element. He’d provided more wine than could possibly be consumed and having invited the shooters back was handing over money for a further five stones to the bundle they’d already smoked.

“Come on Magno! Let’s get wasted.”

Lipton looked on as did Beamer and his young apprentice. Ripping open the clingfilm Christ soon had the rock which he split in half handing Lipton the smaller of the two stones.

“Load up your pipe Lipton! This one’s for Skree. We miss you brother!”

Jesus placed the white rock, the size of a petit poir pee on to the improvised Karpackie can, bent and punctured in the centre of the dip with a mass of tiny holes. The ash from the cigarette he’d just smoked sat in a small heap above the holes. Lipton had his glass pipe, now thick with brown oil he’d scrape once the crack was gone. A mass of burnt off pan scowerer served the same purpose as Christs cigarette ash; to hold the crack once it was liquified by heat. Both struck their lighters.

“Slange!” Lipton said as both men took a huge inhalation of the crack before holding it down deep in their lungs and then exhaled two clouds of white smoke that met above the fire and was carried up skyward by the heat.

Both Lipton and Christ sat in silence as the massive rush from the pipes hit them.

“Fuck me! That’s some decent stone!” Christ complimented Beamer on the quality of his product.

Once the hit diminished Jesus bought a couple of dark. Lipton ripped from his roll of foil, two 8 inch by 10 to run their beetles and two smaller pieces to make their tooters.

“I like it man who plays a tin foil flute.”

And soon both were running lines of brown and inhaling the soothing heroin to take the edge off the white.

Magno could not resist and took a sneaky photo that he posted to his instagram page.

“Fuck me! Pass me that wine”

The two shotters shared a bottle and sparked up a spliff to share.

“Takes me back to when I had my gang of followers who left their wives and jobs to join me in the street drinking.”

Lipton had heard the story many times but it was a fresh one for the young lads and he wouldn’t spoil it.

“Is that the Judas cunt story?” Lipton encouraged Christ to get it rolling. He might be a proper wreck head but he span a good yarn. “Most of the gang were lightweights to be frank and after a gallon of wine a piece and a whole bunch of Lebanese bifters they crashed out. My best fucking mate! Or so I thought was the only cunt still awake. He looks at me, all shifty like and said he off down the all night garage to get some skins. I said there’s a load of skins; green, blue, small and large size kicking around. But he says he wants some munchies. I said I can summon up some bread if you want. He says he wants some snickers or something. I said I can come with you but he tells me to chill out, have a lie down, I’ll bring you something good. Then he slips off. I should have seen it coming but I genuinely considered him my best mate at the time. See, Lipton here, and Skree when he was alive, I know they wouldn’t grass me up. Half an hour later he comes back , offers me a star bar and the cunt kisses me on the cheek. At first I thought I’d read him wrong, perhaps he was a shirt lifter, but out of nowhere about a dozen Romans appear and had me against the wall. I swallowed the hash, about a quarter which proved to be a big mistake when they took me to their boss who had a whole bunch of questions. By now the hash was starting to kick in, big time!”

Beamer was distracted by a call.

“Yes bro! I’m on that roundabout just outside Bridgewater. If you’re coming down from north it’s the one that has a road off to Hinckley Point and the other off into Bridgewater. Tell him we’re round a fire in the middle of the bushes.”

“Are you listening to my story or what?” Christ asked.

“. It’s just another punter who can’t score anywhere.”

“That’s cool! The more the merrier.”

Lipton knew now he was in for a party and his privacy on the roundabout was done.

The messiah took a swig of wine and got back to his story.

“Pontias Pilate! Pompous pollock more like!”

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Stairwell moths

My brother is the real authority on moths who I consult when confounded. He says my micro is a scoparia ambigualis. These micros are a whole new world to me with countless slight variations. Some are only identifiable by dissection of their genitalia. This is obviously beyond my basic moth dabbling. They light up my life and the buzz of seeing a new one gives me a natural high that lasts for up to three days. I have a moth identification app but it’s through looking at the books that provides most learning.

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Stairwell moths

Eudonia mercurella

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Stairwell moths

The yellow shell. It’s been a great week in the stairwell and also the Shark at the cash machine the other morning

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Stairwell moths

Eudonia Mercurella

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