The Wind of Thursdays

We come down and we wait, then go back and pretend to be Norwegian. I eat chips and talk about cloud formations only to beguile your Belgian acquaintances.

Sometimes I am a strawberry.

Is this how your goat makes speeches, wearing a pink tutu and eating candyfloss?

I have smelt the Wind of Thursdays.

How do you keep this up? Is it a gift, a knack, or all those days spent in the bathroom with your trousers around your ankles painting pictures of Doris Stokes on your inner thigh using various shades of nail varnish?

I could, so easily, have been the speedboat of your nightmares, or the werewolf of your dreams, but my desires for the dark side of accountancy led me down to this river; the river of twelve million, fourteen thousand, two hundred and forty-seven small pebbles. One day, I promise, I will count all the rocks - both semi-submerged and completely submerged. Then we will - at long last - really know true freedom.

I must go now - for the hamsters are howling at the full moon, calling my name.