Dear Diary, 

Life in this little boring village (Ferryway, for future historians reading my great memoir) is slow. I thought leaving the bright lights of the city would help me concentrate on my art. I was painting all day bohemian style back then. Now I can barely manage a painting per week, and even then nobody has any interest in buying. 

I'll be out all night at the village market; there's going to be music and food and, hopefully, a pretty girl with low standards attending. 

Maybe I'll go to the market early, I've been meaning to sketch the local graveyard. Its like something out of a Hammer horror movie. 

Note: No more cups of tea for the rest of the day. I'm an addict.

S.   BARRY ROADS.