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Later in the evening of their fateful meeting day, the barefoot girl and half bootless vicar climbed, jointly warbling, hand in hand up through the glades of the northside woods and out beyond the tree line on to the bleak summit screes of the upper heath.

Here, from those high ridges, scrub tonsured by the winds, the innocent reverend stared wide eyed horrified, south to the roiling florets, coal smoke black boiling in the city bowl where credit and capital clashed and churned and the mean brute engines beat out a seasonless rhythm for the button makers and boot blacks to stamp and sweat and shine and shiver in wilson white summer heat and the chill winter gutters.

"There are no fish there Muff…..there are no clean streams," whispered Bubbles, her indicators juddering in the breeze "I've been down there before….I've seen it….I've felt it"

The girl looked swiftly away, and a brief tear welled as she recalled "the unfortunate events" after she performed "The Halibut Irresistible" at the last Garroway and Paternoster Bobbin and Needle Threaders Association Annual Functionless, Fanciest Fluff and Feather Awards and she shuddered at the memory of those three, belly pale, office soft hands…sallow….creeping.

Almost hopelessly they turned to the north. There, nestled in the cosy comfort of the River Brent bottoms they could see the easy twinkle of the flattened ZA suburban arcologies and the streetlights outside Peelers on the High Road and hear in the far distance the great bell of St Beatrice's calling in to tea the destitute lady casters from their therapeutic works at Mrs Furtleshams casting parlour.

Far beyond, the white volcanic peaks of the Mill Hills cast their daily dusk shadows over the tinkling orfe filled riffles and weasel leas of the Upper Dollis Brook and the Low Barnet and Underhill Allotment Society brassica backs.

Muff gave a deep sigh. "There is no place for me there anymore, Bubbles….. I've caused great schism and I'm pretty certain to be excommunicated from the casters style and substance synod after my translation research with Professor Plukeperch is made public…." And he too, shook with tears of loss and pent emotion.

Momentarily recovering himself somewhat, he looked at her shyly,… beautiful, milk eyed silhouette stunning against the dust red sky.

"Will you come away with me Bubbles?....." He paused to collect himself….and rushed on…" I wrote to Auntie Marjorie at the Squeak, she told me to go west and see a Mr Fillmore Moonshimmer at the Yurt of the Tripping Frog in the high greenfields of the Bogstock casting festival. I have a small pack of ZA PPP Ltd "NOMUD" cleansing wet wipes so we can keep our tackle clean and errrm…..one welly boot…..we can share the boot if it rains……." he stopped suddenly, lost for more and smiled hopefully.

Silently she took his arm in hers and, rods shouldered, they moved away at last from the scenes of painful past and began the long, long walk west to the vast blue tent and tipi villages of Bogstock, far, far beyond the setting sun which sank slowly, gentle pink, over the Cricklewood coal yards and deep into the soft Neasden Marshes.

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