Evening Essex

I'm sat in the back garden, having a smoke, playing the guitar and enjoying a lovely cup of tea as the sun goes down. It's a different pace out here in the country.

Nah, I need to play some more guitar before it gets any colder and I decide to go in...

Well, you lucky people. Are you in for a treat? I started writing this out of habit and wanting to write more. There wasn't a plot or anything. But now...

So, since I put the screen down I have: played a little more guitar (like one song), gone inside to get some matches, lit and smoked the doob, found that the rest of my weed is missing; the empty (like licked clean) cling film was lying on the floor, no whereabouts of a clue as to why this has just happened.

I looked around the floor, the table, the grass!

And then, because I'm a little high, spun out a bit. Where has my weed gone? Who and how the hell did they get it? I've just come inside to write that down. At the risk of a) getting cold, b) not finding anything or c) being stalked by a new nemesis; I have to act.

What happens next?