Fighting the road and longing for the end. Pain: the accompaniment to life’s little troubles. Are we nearly there yet? Not far now. How far is it? Let’s play a game. Are we nearly there yet? Throw yourself into the battle, muscles cracking, screaming hurl yourself up that hill. Yes, I know, it looks like a vertical cliff to me too. Get your fingers in the crack, lever it open, cut through your complaining, whining mind, what’s a torn nail compared to the glories that await you.
A gaggle of girls with their giggles and their wisdom lead us on to the doors cut in granite. Are we in Tolkein country? No not at all, see who’s over there. A second hand car salesman who looks suspiciously like Nigel Farage dressed up as a grinning baboon with a pint of bitter grasped in his trembling fingers, or at least the residue of a pint of bitter. Standing back a little, muttering to each other, are the remains of the political elite, loosening their ties so they can breathe, sweating, their suits dusty and torn. And here, a rough and ready firing squad, volunteers, fingers twitching ready on the triggers of their newly acquired semi-automatic weapons.
Is it possible to get this door open? Is this another cul-de-sac? Is this another fine mess you’ve got me into? Shall I go and continue to fight the road or run and hide in the toilet until I can face language again, until the patterns settle, sentences form, meanwhile crouch and let gravity whirl me away.
