Preservation society

Out on the green, they kicked his man-marbles over and over, shouting 'No breeding! No breeding!'

From the gazebo fifty metres away, three men in tweed jackets and flat caps watched and smoked.

"Cryin' shame," said one. "Hush," said another, "best keep that feeling to yourself."

"Aye" said the third.

When the beating stopped, they stubbed out their cigarettes and walked away.

Their hands in their pockets

The man lying in a bloody hump was a 7th generation fiddler of great skill.

Many feared his prowess with a bow.

Though now, his track suit covered in spit and blood, he lay quite still and inoffensive.

With a half lidded gaze to the cloudy sky.

"Rain," he whispered.

He felt in his pocket. Yes. It was still there. The sweetest word in the English language: 'blister pack'.