In England it was raining and no one had a word to say about their downfall that had happened so quickly it had caught them unawares.
“Let’s come back in the summer,” said one who was soaked to the bone and staring out from under his umbrella.
They’d arrived at the last coal mine in England but it was closed, shut down forever by the government that owned the mine and who would buy their coal cheaper elsewhere.
“What a dismal place,” said the old seadog still swaying on his land legs.
“We’ll head south,” said Master Ying into his soggy fish and chips.
“And I shall write a strongly worded letter of complaint,” said Blue-Jane reaching into her bag that was full of rainwater.
“Drat,” she said and pulled her wet hand out and looked at it as if it was moderately evil and transfixed with the notion to make her life hard.