"Un-fucking-believable", I said.
Alas, it was very much fucking-believable. I was leaving the supermarket essentially empty handed at the end of a teaching day that had stretched almost 11 hours. I smelled like a damp sock in the lost-and-found cupboard of a school gym. I looked not just like I'd been dragged through a hedge backwards, but had instead been forcibly pulled through every single hedge of the entire Grand National course. My brain was sputtering like the engine of a Soviet-era tractor, backfiring alarmingly but somehow chugging forcefully at 1000rpm on nothing on nothing more than caffeinated diesel fumes. In the time that it had taken me to wander aimlessly around the aisles, pick up a Coke Zero, and return to my bike, the heavens had opened. It was as though God himself were raining a stream of celestial piss upon my proverbial chips. If He does exist (and it's an Almighty if), one wonders why his divine plan would call for a downpour to begin in the five-minute window between arriving at the supermarket and leaving again. It's almost as though the big man is a malicious old sod. I guess what I'm getting at is that it felt profoundly unfair. It had been a swelteringly hot day; the kind of day when riding on a motorbike only seems to blow more hot air in your face, like opening the door of a fan oven. The sky had been almost cobalt blue and unblemished by clouds, though by this point the sun had buggered off behind the mountain at least an hour earlier, and nighttime was firmly established. Stringing profanities together like a profane Rosary, I pulled on my heavy duty poncho and pootled off into the drizzle. It was time to go home.
Alas, it was very much fucking-believable. I was leaving the supermarket essentially empty handed at the end of a teaching day that had stretched almost 11 hours. I smelled like a damp sock in the lost-and-found cupboard of a school gym. I looked not just like I'd been dragged through a hedge backwards, but had instead been forcibly pulled through every single hedge of the entire Grand National course. My brain was sputtering like the engine of a Soviet-era tractor, backfiring alarmingly but somehow chugging forcefully at 1000rpm on nothing on nothing more than caffeinated diesel fumes. In the time that it had taken me to wander aimlessly around the aisles, pick up a Coke Zero, and return to my bike, the heavens had opened. It was as though God himself were raining a stream of celestial piss upon my proverbial chips. If He does exist (and it's an Almighty if), one wonders why his divine plan would call for a downpour to begin in the five-minute window between arriving at the supermarket and leaving again. It's almost as though the big man is a malicious old sod. I guess what I'm getting at is that it felt profoundly unfair. It had been a swelteringly hot day; the kind of day when riding on a motorbike only seems to blow more hot air in your face, like opening the door of a fan oven. The sky had been almost cobalt blue and unblemished by clouds, though by this point the sun had buggered off behind the mountain at least an hour earlier, and nighttime was firmly established. Stringing profanities together like a profane Rosary, I pulled on my heavy duty poncho and pootled off into the drizzle. It was time to go home.
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