PeterJ is entirely awesome and talented. He also rides his bicycle safely. He is responsible for my dashing new look: Moobz
I set off along the Embankment at dust. The gaslight in the Temple and the white snow on the black railings made the world seem a poetic place.
"Hmm" I thought, there's a blog to be written here and started musing, one gloved hand gently stroking my chin, the other held aloft as tribute to the Muse - acting as an inspiration receiver.
THUD. A ball of ice lightly dusted in snow hit the ground in front of me. It was a drive-by near miss. A particular sub-culture of lairy students and former school bullies doing shit-stacking jobs for minimum wage (I think they are known, formally, as Generation Y but I prefer to think of them as "the ***nts") have recently taken to wringing a thrill from the grey by driving past people and throwing things at them.
They spot a likely candidate, pick up a little speed, dare each other like 5 year olds and then throw something at their victim's beany-hatted head before, convulsed with laughter, the driver loses control and powers their crappy hatchback into the back of a petrol tanker. There is just a chance to see them flail their broken arms at the door latches before they erupt in an explosion that shatters windows as far south as Dover.
You see the problem. A minor infringement of my dignity and instead of thinking "Oo those scamps" my mind is foaming with extravagant and fantastical revenges that leave eyeballs and viscera scattered around like a toddler's toys. I become, in an instant, a Hollywood serial killer.
"I'll show them" I think. There are a number of problems with this. First, I have no idea who they are. Secondly, my chances of out-running their vehicle are slim. Thirdly, if I did catch them what exactly is it my sub-conscious is proposing that I should show them? I certainly wouldn't have anything to hand likely to induce terror or respect if waved at them.
It amazes me that however much I bathe my soul in a balm of Chopin, Mommy-blogs and Woody Allen movies, those little ***ts can turn me into a caveman in an instant. Albeit a podgy caveman with glasses and a dodgy knee.
I set off along the Embankment at dust. The gaslight in the Temple and the white snow on the black railings made the world seem a poetic place.
"Hmm" I thought, there's a blog to be written here and started musing, one gloved hand gently stroking my chin, the other held aloft as tribute to the Muse - acting as an inspiration receiver.
THUD. A ball of ice lightly dusted in snow hit the ground in front of me. It was a drive-by near miss. A particular sub-culture of lairy students and former school bullies doing shit-stacking jobs for minimum wage (I think they are known, formally, as Generation Y but I prefer to think of them as "the ***nts") have recently taken to wringing a thrill from the grey by driving past people and throwing things at them.
They spot a likely candidate, pick up a little speed, dare each other like 5 year olds and then throw something at their victim's beany-hatted head before, convulsed with laughter, the driver loses control and powers their crappy hatchback into the back of a petrol tanker. There is just a chance to see them flail their broken arms at the door latches before they erupt in an explosion that shatters windows as far south as Dover.
You see the problem. A minor infringement of my dignity and instead of thinking "Oo those scamps" my mind is foaming with extravagant and fantastical revenges that leave eyeballs and viscera scattered around like a toddler's toys. I become, in an instant, a Hollywood serial killer.
"I'll show them" I think. There are a number of problems with this. First, I have no idea who they are. Secondly, my chances of out-running their vehicle are slim. Thirdly, if I did catch them what exactly is it my sub-conscious is proposing that I should show them? I certainly wouldn't have anything to hand likely to induce terror or respect if waved at them.
It amazes me that however much I bathe my soul in a balm of Chopin, Mommy-blogs and Woody Allen movies, those little ***ts can turn me into a caveman in an instant. Albeit a podgy caveman with glasses and a dodgy knee.
