It began like any other day: too much to do, plus – my mind music wasn’t what I wanted.
Rain drummed on every lie of metal outdoors. Even the plastic bin rattled its wheels by my rickety gate trying its best to hang out with the trumpet and a rather overweight unsexy sax. Indoors was little better: the washing machine rolled like a sick THING, splashing lather where its door’s rubber seal had stretched even more.
I already sensed a touch of the dramatic as a knock at the front door. Was quickly introduced to a new postie called Rodge who proferred a large envelope sans a stamp but had a somewhat messy run of inky letters. Having signed an even soggier piece of paper hiding under a piece of slippery plastic sheet tucked firm on a clipboard, I ran my fingers over my now wet shirt , caught my bare left foot under the half crumpled tweed rug.
To say my fall was elegant would be a lie. I swore like a trooper whose leave had been suddenly cancelled when he was due a ready date with an even readier woman!
Next thing I was hanging by my skirt on a branch of something like a prickly ragah deucium tree. Then.. well, then there was Rodge with his arms wide spread, obviously prepared to catch me.
Let me think.. sadly, doctor, he missed and I fell on the radiator and that’s when-why I fell asleep in a glistening world flish-flashing a billion stars. Bootiful it was.
‘I beg your wotsit, what was that, sir?’ .. .. ..
I spent the next two days telling a chap who knew about minds that improve after a bang on the head. Seems yours truly might have her biog on the best sellers’ list if she hurries to write it before Rodge does. Yep, he’s into letters too.
