I am in York, sitting in an American restaurant, with at least five annoying children who seem intent on spilling ketchup on me, and/or starting a food fight. I am sitting at a booth, in a wheelchair. I plot my escape, which will need to be at night, and will need to be towards Thirsk. I work out a route down the York to Thirsk road, and set out along it.
I reach a point where I must cross the road. As the road is a wide, normally-busy dual-carriageway, a footbridge carries pedestrians to the other side. I ascend the bridge quite easily, but there is an Escher-style selection of ramps to take me down to the ground again.
I choose the one that I take to be the correct one. I double back on myself (still in a wheelchair), and reach the ground. At the bottom, there stand five tramps. I hope that they are drunk and friendly, so I say, "Good Evening". And with that, the one in the red jumper murders me.
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