Dragging my feet along the essential shops (butchers, pharmacy, casino) only keeps me entertained for so long – if I had a penny spare, then maybe I would have bet on the horse racing with a sausage roll in hand and some cough syrup to wash it down. The village is small, so my window shopping gets cut short. At this point, my only option is to creep around the houses. Venturing into the cul-de-sac, the time has come to pick a place for shelter and relief. Everyone’s door is wide open. I am a stranger in this land but also in the next, so nothing will stop me from entering. My stomach rumbles and my bladder applies pressure, survival instincts have awakened. There’s a bungalow that has all the paths converted for wheelchair access. That seems like the clear option for a bathroom break, somewhere to stretch my legs on the toilet.