Excerpt: This Ain’t Provence
Excerpt: The Sin of Camouflage
The Sin of Camouflage
“Good God, Johnson,” he said, giving me a horrified once over. “Is that … camouflage?”
To the sin of wearing a fabricated leaf pattern, I pleaded guilty. In fact, my closet was rapidly taking on the character of a slow growth forest. Camouflage shirts and jackets, vests and pants. Though I wasn’t a hunter, I’d discovered camouflage was an excellent way to blend in with the locals.
Along with the camo there was the footwear, which at the moment happened to be a pair of knee length rubber boots that literally took Oswald’s breath away.
“Riight,” he said, turning his attention toward the clouds as if looking any lower might prove too embarrassing. “Never mind. What do you say —I don’t know — you get changed and we grab ourselves a cup of coffee? My treat.”