Canterbury’s fervent beauty is little soured by the menace of humanity.
However, it is at least partially irritating to have to maintain coyote like agility to negotiate the meandering morons. Like ants without purpose, they mill and linger, stoop and stop with alarming regularity, meaning collisions are always a possibility to the uneducated.
This morning I broke a stride toward the pub for a meeting. A strangely satisfying one at that, being as it was full of cracking one-liners and merry rhetoric. However, it turns out that the eight or so of us were not in fact there to be briefed on the roles for the new Alien film. We’re not even going to be in it at all!
Disappointment resultant from this ends in howling sobs, heaving maws and crashing fists, distaste echoes through the building, scaring the crows into the sky. As the party recovers, we scale the mountain of business, inch-by-inch to the summit of Good to Great.
I muse on the title “Fair to Middling” being more amusing, but I do not say this. The meeting descends into the usual chaos of irreverent Have I got News for You style banter, with various brilliant observations on Cameron, the Ukraine crisis, and Easter.
None of that happened. But of course, on cue, Toni brings up that fucking planet.
“I’d like to sketch out a plan for Keplar please”, she trills, miming a circle to represent the planet she says she discovered.
“I plan to start several countries. It’s going to require me being away for a 1,000 years. I’m also going to need all the budget for a spaceship, and several thousand laborers to build and maintain the capital, Antoniasia.”
Furrowed brows. Some barely veiled swearing. Somebody kicks a chair over. A cup of tea is tossed skywards. She continues.
“You’re also all going to have to dress as a planet.”
Suddenly, all my ideas seem small fry. Statler and Waldorf balcony on the wall. Massive inflatable ball blocking the entrance. Feargal Sharkey tattoes. Tossed all in the bin and burned.
My book gets some conversation. It draws some interest from the gathered. If only they knew it wasn’t poetry, but was in fact just 200 pictures of me crying in public. No 187 is particularly harrowing.
I grab my collar and throw myself out onto the street. Seems a tad over the top of me. I muse upon two things. One is meeting someone you know in the street and walking with them, now having to think of things to say. It’s worse in my case. I always meet myself, every day, and then have to go everywhere with me talking. To myself.
Also, I imagine my hair getting a me-cut. Going into a barber, and asking for a couple of legs chopped off. Madness.
Bloody blast and damnation, I find myself wandering aimlessly through the streets, folding arms in CEX, not buying anything. I end up in Primark. Or as I call it, Crymark. Because any time I’m in there I feel like crying.
I flow outta there like a river of piss. Into HMV. The most interesting thing in there is a man having a political discussion entirely with himself. Cracking. Then TESCO, where several items get bundled into my basket, then purchased for later consumption, as is the way. One brief diversion to the charity shop, and then back home.
On the way back, an adorable black and white cat with a cheery demeanor greets. I pet it and continue.
Lord of the Rings 6 is out Monday. Here is a cover I did on it. It cost millions.