A beautiful sun-drenched stroll in parts I n'er have strolled before. I enter the woods. Irrational panic takes hold. What if I encounter a life-less body lying in the undergrowth? Someone's gotta find them. Normally it's a man in his early fifties wearing a red anorak whilst walking a black labrador. However, this may not always be the case.
In 1991 a body was found by a canal near Rugby by a 38 year-old man wearing an authentic Peruvian poncho. The body in question was fortunately still alive and merely having an afternoon snooze on buttercups but it does illustrate the possibility of someone other than the anorak-clad quinquangenarian finding bodies.
Thankfully I negotiate the woods without discovering a body and indeed I'm fortunate enough to discover a fine example of oakmoss lichen. I perhaps should have a more optimistic outlook on entering woods.
Hadn't baked a cake in years. Three at a guess. Which, actually thinking about it, is possibly the minimum feasible amount of time to justify using the term 'in years'. Carrot cake it was – with that lovely white topping that's like a cross between cream, cheese and icing. 'Creesing' perhaps?
The quandary always posed with cake making is whether one should lick the mixing bowl out? It's got raw egg in it. According to the Daily Mail, raw egg can cause wrist burn and, in some eggxamples, induce a rare form of coma in which the victim dreams of Big Bird from Sesame Street for four weeks solid. Thing is, I'd rather trust my mum than the Daily Mail and when I was eight my mum would always let me lick the bowl out. There again eggs in the seventies were probably safer, as chickens had a lot more space and the air wasn't so full of aerosols and haemorrhoids.
I checked where my eggs were from. Good news! They were laid by chickens roaming freely on Silbury Hill, cared for by Hendoos - a religious order concerned only with the good health of feathered cluckers, and not to be confused with Hindus or women on a frenzied night out in Blackpool.
Today I entered an on-line competition to win Leicester City football tickets. I had to write, in under 45 words, what my pre-football match ritual is. I won't win. The winner will have written something along the lines of: I ALWAYS HAVE A CUP OF BOVRIL JUST BEFORE KICK-OFF AND STIR IT FIVE TIMES ANTI-CLOCKWISE SO CITY WILL WIN.
I assume my effort, though very honest, will be judged too eclectic and perhaps a little alienating:
ARISE. SORE BACK. SHOWER WITH TEMPORARY OUTBURSTS OF TOURETTES. DON DULL FABRICS. TOAST: MARMITE FIRST, PEANUT BUTTER SECOND. A HUNDRED MINUTES OF FIAT PUNTO – PJ HARVEY IN TOW. SOLIPSIST THOUGHTS PASSING THE BP GARAGE ON NARBOROUGH ROAD. PINT. HEAD TO THE GROUND, LIKE AN AGEING FLY TO HORSE SHIT.
What's more – it's over 50 words. Ah well, probably find something else to do with my Saturday.
"What in the name of Hade's wardrobe is that?"
I'm asking myself this question. On my own you see, in the middle of a wood somewhere between Norfolk and West Wales and there's an almighty sound surrounding me. It's a techno beat. It sounds mechanical yet strangely organic too and it's getting louder!
I wonder if it's one of those birds from YouTube? The ones that can mimic any sound. It heard 808 State on the radio the other day and is now belting it out like there's no tomorrow, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.
Either that or it's some kind of hydraulic pump. Most probably the later but I do like the idea of the former, so I take out my sound-recording/picture-taking/video-recording/web-browsing/people-talking/must-have-at-all-times-21st-century-extension-of-myself and record a minutes worth of this banging beat, with the intention of using it to start a new tune when I get home.
I say 'intention' because I won't do this. I'll get home, check my emails, get some pasta on the go, crack open the vino and settle down to watch the entire seven series of Peep Show.
