For Mandolin O’Dorke it should have been an average stroll in an average wood on an average day. The sun shone in a ho-hummish medium sort of way, Goldilocksian in that it wasn’t too hot or cold. He felt okay, nicely poised between happy and miserable, in one of those fence-sitting moods that can soar with the discovery of a fiver in the inside pocket of your jacket or plummet with the squelch of something clawing on the sole of your shoe.
If he spotted the rainbow at all it was with that part of the brain that sits in reserve at the back reading the Hippocampus times and waiting to see if it’ll be needed. He had almost passed it when something caught his eye. He thanked the something, explaining that his eye had a tendency to come loose on average days and popped it back into its socket.
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