Notes from the Potting Shed

 So, there I was earlier, nursing a pint of something brown and vaguely medicinal at the Goose and Argument, when Eustace Particle leaned in and dropped a tale on me that’s stuck like a burr in your sock.

Apparently, old Mr. Thatasdyke —yes, the grump who thinks modern technology is witchcraft and Wi-Fi is a fancy type of sandwich—finally surrendered to curiosity and stumbled into the Travelling Fayre’s fortune teller tent. Now, Mr. Thatasdyke’s not the type to entertain nonsense unless it involves a free drink or a chance to grumble.

Apparently, inside the tent, the air smelled of incense mixed with something metallic—like burnt pennies left too long in a fire. The fortune teller herself was draped in a cloak so dark it seemed to swallow the dim light, her hood pulled low, showing only a pair of eyes that didn’t reflect but sucked the light right in, like twin bottomless wells.

She didn’t say a word, just laid out a Tarot deck unlike any I’ve ever heard of—cards with names like The Moth-Eaten Moon, The Whispering Boot, and The Parquet of Secrets. Painted by someone who’s seen the devil’s own midnight hour, if you ask me.

Mr. Thatasdyke got three cards, then a slip of paper with the message: “Beware the clock that counts no hours.” He claims he laughed it off, naturally—he’s no fool. But wouldn’t you know it, his pocket watch stopped dead at 3:13 PM and hasn’t moved since. Like time itself gave him the cold shoulder.

Now, the Fayre have rigged up some crackly tannoy system near the Ferris wheel. Every so often, this rattly old speaker sputters to life, announcing times that make no sense at all. “Four… no, wait… six… or maybe just before tea,” it garbles, while the Fayre’s lights flicker in uneven pulses, like a heartbeat that’s skipped a beat or two.

Meanwhile, Mr. Thatasdyke’s been wandering around asking everyone, “What time is it?” with the kind of look you get when you've just received an unwelcome telegram from a distant relative.

If you see him, don’t rush to tell him the time. Just smile and say, “It’s time to worry.”

The Travelling Fayre’s playing tricks, twisting time and minds like a bad fiddle tune played by a ghost. Keep your watches close, your doors locked tight, and whatever you do—don’t trust that tannoy.

And me? I’m just here with my pint, trying to figure if time’s gone wonky or if Mr. Thatasdyke’s just lost it proper this time. Either way, I’m keeping one eye on the Fayre and the other on my watch—just in case they decide to steal time from me next.

#TravellingFayre #TimeOnTheLoose #FortuneFollies #BewareTheClock #WatchYourWatch