A Lamppost

So, anyway, there I was tickling the underside of a combine harvester and with the other hand sending a text message to a lamppost I had been earnestly debating the meaning of Cornish pasties with in the small hours of the morning, much to the seeming annoyance of those in the nearby vicinity who seem to like sleeping during the night-time hours, when suddenly I thought....

I know it is wrong, especially in this day and age when the celebrity lifestyles we so avidly follow and the popular culture we so wantonly consume do so much - as much as they can to prevent us being troubled by thought – but I couldn't help it. I recalled just standing there, watching the lamppost for the first signs of belligerence caused by it so obviously losing the argument, when that thought just crept into my head... virtually unopposed.

I suppose if I hadn't escaped the British educational system at such a young age, tempted to go astray by all those young women and their promises of a more intimate and beguiling form of hands-on geometry, then I would have been insulated against all forms of original thinking, which is any educational system's most proudest boast, and responded to that lamppost’s sneering sense of superiority by mouthing some conventional piety, or uttering some bland conventional wisdom, that is supposed to mollify any attempt by a citizen unit towards actually wanting to do its own thinking.

Anyway, I found myself thinking: why on earth am I standing here debating the meaning of Cornish pasties with a smug bloody lamppost in the early hours of the morning when I could be at home failing to make a bacon sandwich. So I told the bloody smart-arsed lamppost to go screw itself – admittedly somewhat louder than the situation really demanded – and went off home to see if there was any bacon left in the fridge.