Carefully ensconced elsewhere.
It has been a month precisely since my last update here. Slow was my progress at the school, and you would not have been entertained to read about it. When I tell you now that I am writing from a small Internet café beneath the Edinburgh airport you will know that I have waged a successful campaign against the wall of cold women who would have kept me under lock and key until the end of my useful days.
As you are aware I had taken the tactic of gradually adjusting the morale of the school populace by serving them ever-more pleasurable foods. This had been going along quite well. The staggered addition of spices and textures flew entirely under the radar of those involved, as I have noted before, and warmed their disposition towards myself. It was eventually arranged that I should cater the headmistress's New Year's luncheon, which meant a long drive out into the countryside with a great deal of food and equipment.
The day of the picnic I lined the bottoms of the baskets with chefs' jackets, towels, and matches. Atop that I placed the many breads, pies, roasted meats, and moulded salads which comprised their meal. Hidden in a screw-top cruet of dressing was a promising volume of cooking marsala, which I thought might provide a bit of joint-warmth later in the game. For good measure a few sandwiches of potted meat lined the interiors.
The caravan of vehicles took us out God only knows where in the countryside, far into the outermost reaches of Mother Nature's supply of wind-whipped heather. It was miles from the nearest edifice. This suited me fine.
Atop a green hillock we alit from the cars and set up camp. Matches were applied to the chafing fuels, carving knives were laid out. Trays of spoons garnished long white tables of nourishment and I generally set about work. A few tins of the Sterno gel fell unnoticed into my apron.
After an educational tour of the local worm-bearing earth the headmistress and her cronies, a beaky bunch, were satisfied that all of nature had been warned of their presence, and they fell to the buffet. They are a slow group to consume, every last one mindful of her napkin and the daub it might remove should haste direct consumption. I held steady post throughout, carving ham with a wonderful smile.
The meal passed a simple success and I was thanked many times over. While our catering crew toiled at breaking down camp and departing, I casually asked two different service staffs if I might ride back with them, space abiding, thus making no particular group responsible for me. One would assume I had gotten a ride from the other, if I did not show up for last call.
All the while I had placed fuel, clothing, food and other tools in an indentation hidden in the area designated as the servants' latrine. When the caravan of vehicles left without me, I waited a few minutes and set about my business. It was cold out, and the weather clement, and I needed to distance myself from the venue. My package of valuables fit into a nice shoulder sack and soon I had come across a property which spared me an unlocked ten-speed.
Not much thereafter I had made my way to the airport. I traded the bulk of the survival gear and food to the local pisspots, and my plane's boarding in twenty minutes. I've got about two hundred bucks earmarked for Jack and Coke, let's see if I can blow it by SF. Kinda like Brewster's Millions, but the idea is to reach oblivion and the local ground crew is gonna need a shovel and an ambulance if I do.