WEEK 3: Flies, Floods and Femme Fatales

The worst thing that happened today was absentmindedly pouring milk into my freshly brewed cup of Earl Grey. I say it was the worst thing because everything else had an up side, whereas my Earl Grey was all down the drain.

This morning started off quite good. No rain and bright, ambient light conditions instead of blindingly direct sunlight. A sign of the season. Spring is here, the birdies sing and bastard flies are congregating in their millions over the cycle paths. Perhaps not so much a sign of the season as a symptom of the miles of stagnant waterways and putrid ponds that litter Warrington, thanks to a generation of Architects Draftsmen who thought they were also expert ecologists and landscapers.

So, yes, I had more than one face full of flying fudge eaters... but on the plus side I had missed breakfast so was greatful for the nourishment!

If it ain't glass it's snails and worms! Rainfall round these parts has been above average this last week. All the mosquito nurseries have turned into torrents of heavy, clay filled muck that occassionally burst their banks. The aforementioned clay, on which this prehistoric lake bed is founded, also means that after a decent downpour the ground remains sodden for weeks afterwards. So, the morning after the biblical rains the night before, every stretch of tarmac and concrete is the scene of a lemming-like exodus of half drowned lower lifeforms.

The plus side is that the broken glass all gets washed off the roads and pavements and into the muddy puddles, which are then churned by further rainfall, which effectively buries it all as it settles. But as the fragments of lambrusco and shards of Asda's Own sink below the surface, so the invertebrates rise out of it to creep, ooze, slither and squirm in one last, desperately heroic charge across the macadam to meet a gruesome end in a squishy porridge of their own entrails beneath the uncaring feet and careless wheels of commuters. My journey this morning was accompanied by lots of little sound effects from the road surface as tiny shells imploded, rubbery flesh ruptured and viscera squirted at high speed out of minute prolapsed rectums.

Gentle reader, dry thine eyes and lambast me not, for I did my level best to chart an unobstructed path through this tide of tiny souls, but had I been instead equipped with stilts which tapered to a point smaller than a pencil head, I could not have avoided committing inverticide. Oh, the carnage! A veritable sea of crushed, mangled and liquified bodies littered the scene for yards and yards in every direction! Every time I close my eyes I hear a million tiny mouths gasp their last breath. Oh, the horror!

I saw a really fit bird today! Absolutely fecking gorgeous, she was. A squirty, creamy, spasming orgasm on long, lovely legs topped off by a perfectly proportioned buzom beneath an exquisitely crafted face with lips that made Angelina Jolie look like an Olympic class lemon sucker. Then I hit a lamp post, after which I sort of lost track of her.

Damn.