This afternoon as we relaxed after today’s performance of BIBL, without any reason at all, my tics turned their attention to a place down south – Huntingdon to be exact. Here’s the strange song in all its glory:

“The rafters of Huntingdon are calling out your name,
The rafters of Huntingdon are burning in shame,
The rafters in Huntingdon are the nesting place of bats.

The rafters of Huntingdon are calling out your name.
The rafters of Huntingdon are burning in shame,
The rafters of Huntingdon are dreaming of spires, conspiring to think about Magaluf.

The rafters of Huntingdon are calling out your name,
The rafters of Huntingdon are burning in shame,
The rafters of Huntingdon are cooing over bears.

The rafters of Huntingdon are calling out your name,
The rafters of Huntingdon are burning in shame,
The rafters of Huntingdon are rotting in their beds,
The rafters of Huntingdon are falling on UKIP, Tory heads.

The rafters of Huntingdon are calling out your name,
The rafters of Huntingdon are burning in shame,
The rafters of Huntingdon are silhouetted in the eaves,
The rafters of Huntingdon are David Blaine.”

Then, as quickly as it’d started, the song stopped.

My guess is that it’s the roofing type of rafters and not the collective noun for people floating down-river, but with Tourettes you can never be quite sure.