Earlier today, after a slight domestic, I was sat in Dulwich Park feeling sorry for myself. It was the day of the Dulwich Fair, where loads of Borough Market types congregate to eat humus, buy ponchos made from organic llama, and talk about house prices. It was, it has to be said, not a patch on the Grantham fair, where pissed up travellers battle endlessly with pissed up locals. Though the falconry display was good. And I was almost charmed by the local school choir. Almost.
But feeling down, I avoided all these irritants and went and sat on my own on the far side of the pond. I sat quietly reflecting on my life and situation, and watched a one-legged pigeon struggle to survive among his bipedal comrades. I was, I thought, a marvellous metaphor for my current existence. Unable to move freely, to support itself, to provide itself with food even. Just totally emasculated and reliant on the stale bread handouts of strangers. I allowed myself to slip in to the most magnificent pit of self-pity you could imagine. One so deep even the most pathetic Scouse caricature would have forgone the book of condolence and told me to pull myself together. Before robbing my wallet and stabbing me with a Stanley knife.
For a while I thought (rather preposterously it has to be said: my problems pale in to insignificance when compared to those of others in this house, even) things could get no worse. Until, all of a sudden, the unmistakable strains of the local school choir singing 'Blue Moon' drifted across the pond.
"Bastard!" I yelled with bitter, impotent rage to the heavens, so loudly that a father nearly pushed his young, bike riding son in to the pond. "Kick a man when he's down, why don't you?"
At that exact moment, with me staring wide-eyed to the sky, it began to piss it down.
"Twat!" I yelled again, before trudging home.
But feeling down, I avoided all these irritants and went and sat on my own on the far side of the pond. I sat quietly reflecting on my life and situation, and watched a one-legged pigeon struggle to survive among his bipedal comrades. I was, I thought, a marvellous metaphor for my current existence. Unable to move freely, to support itself, to provide itself with food even. Just totally emasculated and reliant on the stale bread handouts of strangers. I allowed myself to slip in to the most magnificent pit of self-pity you could imagine. One so deep even the most pathetic Scouse caricature would have forgone the book of condolence and told me to pull myself together. Before robbing my wallet and stabbing me with a Stanley knife.
For a while I thought (rather preposterously it has to be said: my problems pale in to insignificance when compared to those of others in this house, even) things could get no worse. Until, all of a sudden, the unmistakable strains of the local school choir singing 'Blue Moon' drifted across the pond.
"Bastard!" I yelled with bitter, impotent rage to the heavens, so loudly that a father nearly pushed his young, bike riding son in to the pond. "Kick a man when he's down, why don't you?"
At that exact moment, with me staring wide-eyed to the sky, it began to piss it down.
"Twat!" I yelled again, before trudging home.
Comment