Lambert, world weary and wise, shadowboxes his way up the A11

"Barton Mills..yer s**te pal"...jog jog jog "Carlsberger...yoous probably not, pal"...on and on, the miles accumulated under his brogues.

Then he smelt it. The fresh warm air of Thickthorn. Home was calling. He lowered his fists and sprinted, straight through the lights and on to his calling.

He vaulted the fence at Colney in a single bound. All his does, his betrayers, were vanquished. The last enemy to defeat was himself. His own impossible legacy. Lambert looked around his old lair. Good old Wes volleying a swingball and Russ mowing the grass. Scant resources. Or, a blank canvas. Just what he liked.

Lambert climbed up to the top of the conservatory (health and safety was f**k) and allowed himself a smile.

Sometimes when you chase the thunder, you get lost in the storm. Well, now the storm was passing over, and Paul was exactly where he wanted and needed to be. Halle f**king lujah.

Posted By: MIKEWALKER, May 16, 06:00:33