Oh no, the witch is dead

This morning, it looked like Matthew Hopkins, self-proclaimed witch-hunter general, had risen from his grave and popped over to Trosa in order to rid us of the evil, handbag wielding witch who I reported on a few days ago. Either that or some rotten kids decided to push her over.

This was the scene when I walked by this morning.

It wasn’t the only walking I did today though it was the only dead witch I saw.

After lunch, I took the girls for a walk around Mount Trosa. Given I’m having to wear my Sneaky Steve, Gaz-amended shoe (patent pending), rather than my hiking boots, I didn’t think walking up and over the hill then down through the woods, was a very good idea. For one thing, the lack of a tread on them could prove a bit slippy. Not to mention the likelihood of a soggy sock.

We were not alone on our walk. We managed to choose a time between the showers of rain; rain which fell on and off for most of the day. A number of other people clearly had the same idea. A few with dogs, some jogging and one just out for a walk. All of them were wearing a lot of clothes. This surprised me given the temperature was clearly back up to double figures.

Actually, earlier, as I reached ICA wearing a t-shirt and jeans, I ran into Annette (Harald’s wife) who pointed to my bare arms and asked if I wasn’t cold. I laughed and said no, that I was actually quite warm.

(Which reminds me, when the zombie apocalypse comes, and if the first sign of being infected is being overly hot when the temperature is quite low, please don’t assume I will bite you. My natural core temperature is quite high and there will be no need for decapitation.)

Late in the day, I walked into Trosa to attend a Riksteatern meeting.

There was a lot of talk about how we can gain a bigger membership and put more bums on seats. I volunteered to write an article for possible inclusion in the local paper. A few ideas were thrown around about what I should include in the article.

As I walked home, I wondered whether the local paper would like a regular column called An Aussie in Trosa in which I would write about my experiences of living in this delightful little town on the edge of the Baltic. I’d do it for nothing. It could be something like my Letter from Sweden.

The woods were dark and misty as my thoughts whirled around in my head.

At least it wasn’t raining.

Oh, I should mention that I think the witch was just having a bit of a kip. She was back, standing and alert for danger, by the time I walked back from the ICA.