I caught the first train out of town this morning to go and inspect what a certain farmer has in the fields round the the back (large sections of horse skeleton) before the man rose from his slumbers. Sitting across the carriage from me was an attractive woman, and at the next stop a drunk got on and made a beeline for the seat opposite her. Once the train started his face rapidly changed colour and he began vomiting quietly over himself, compensating for an obvious lack of energy with the two trump cards of every bipedal container no longer able to contain the thing hitherto contained with some difficulty: volume and texture.

The strange thing was that not for one moment did the drunk stop ogling the woman, so she, clearly fearing a case of a fine romance with diced parsnip, came and sat opposite me. It then occurred to her tormentor that it would be intelligent to get out at every station to vomit on the platform instead of his shirt. The result was a cloudy trail of space and time values through the bright Mediterranean morning, and I could see that this was intriguing her.

“The road to ruin,” she sighed. “Men really are all the same.”

“I really never had thought of it that way,” I replied, inferring instantly that only a brief discussion of my views on path selection could salvage her faith in man. “You see, a lot has been written on the role of religion and other forms of belief in determining which path first travellers taken when, for example, crossing a mountain range, but I do sometimes wonder if, rather like the sheep that often lead us, we don’t all choose routes in the same fashion, weighing up our chances with the bear if we keep walking along the river as opposed to the thirst we’ll almost certainly suffer if we hit that first spur, well, that’s excluding the Romans, of course…”

But she was gone, and so was the drunk.

Categories: Acute diseases, Mountains, Splog

RSS: post comments, blog comments, blog posts

You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.