Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud

Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood, you know, as recommended by all good Hippopotami.
I had a good day at school but the PE class was fatally marred by silly people. Oakley is a known troublemaker and if I'm put in his group then I always score zero points, if we'd finished higher we could have played basketball.
Plus, at lunch, 5 people started talking to me so I couldn't eat any of my lunch. When Bud found this out, I had to sit in the kitchen without TV or Match Attax cards until I'd finished it. I mean, what's the big deal, you can always buy me more food when I am hungry, right?
But luckily I was ready in time for Thursday Park.
There was the clammy fog of a windless winter's evening and the aromatic fug of the bespoke cigarettes of the teenagers. We played football and I got quite stuck in but I have no real skill, I just provided a moving obstacle for the real players.
Bob faked an injury (future penalty winner there) and even scored a goal with a ricochet off his P-nuβ, they all count, you know. See his new style of bare legs and Mummy-sized cardigan.
We took time out for chocolate and sulks and self-imposed exile and emotional reunifications, and were the last in the park again (not including the furtive funky foliage fumeurs). When we got home we wiped our feet but still his muddy work boots left their fateful imprints. I wasn't much better, I wore those trousers for about 90 minutes before I was told to change into something that was more cloth than mud, both Ben and Bob spent quality time simply lying in the quagmire disputing a penalty shout, not like anyone was the odd one out. There was a lot of carpet-scrubbing while I watched TV. I tried to dob him in to Jof but it had all gone, I sounded like Candace Flynn.
Later we made a den that is big enough for about 6 children (of all ages).