Over time I often find
The little things I left behind
Under rocks the crawly things
A world of seething wriggling life
Sideways glances withering looks
My word my heart a hidden nook
Down down a spiralling chase
Will I forgive that mocking face
And so I now find myself in a land I don’t know, a dimension where the laws of physics or some such mystical nonsense no longer hold sway. It must have been while I slept. Perhaps it was those greys the little blighters, deciding a trans-dimensional shift was the order of the day ignoring ritual back passage shenanigans (they must get very bored and to be honest I’m sure it’s a chore).
In my previous existence not telling the truth was a sin of a sort and not looked upon as a way to influence people, make friends or get a job. In fact one sniff of such dishonesty and your copy book was blighted, burned and the ashes scattered. A little white lie could be just as damaging as a dirty big honker (though a million plus parents will tell you differently I’m sure, it’s all down to the situation and season).
Here it’s different. In fact the bigger the lie, the more outrageously crass, the bigger the reward. It’s as though the lie becomes invisible, it becomes a mis-truth which we all know boys and girls is not the same thing as a lie, it’s cosy and smart and smiles a smile you just have to forgive… Or forget.
I’m in bed by 6:00 most nights, I leave the window wide open. Those big eyed guys from the far flung galaxy – where a trip to earth is like a holiday at Butlins (but with extra bodily embarrassing games that make carrying a water filled balloon clenched between straining buttocks look safe) – are welcome to come back and take me home.
Once upon a time is a good way to start be it a bit of contemplative observational tosh or piece of pure fiction (and thinking about that can fiction of any kind really be described as ‘pure’?).
Anyway once upon a time I decided that it would be an excellent idea to climb a ladder. It wasn’t a particularly tall ladder, in fact it was more your average run of the mill step ladder, venerable but, so I thought, quite sturdy. It had seen better days when it lived in the comfort of my parents house way over the hills in dear old Yorkshire but still, I trusted its base blue hue and mad modern art Jackson Pollock splatterings.
I’d done a fair job of the bush full of its tiny but lethal spikes, I’d done enough for the time being knowing I had time later, when I was less absorbed with other more pressing thoughts. So why did I have to reach for that nearly out of reach branch that curved temptingly, waving to me, beckoning with its array of sharp talons?
Stupidity. Pure and simple. Pass me that nice dunce’s cap with the extra-large ‘D’. And please explain to my poor violated foot, chipped bone and bruised flesh. Anyway I must dash, there is a lawn mower desperate for action, a nice sharp spade to sink into the warm yielding earth, pass me the shears…