First up, an apology for the previous post. Incoherence is not cool.
After my pointless and rushed post last night, I went and sat outside under the stars with a glass of wine. It was one of those warm, balmy nights where its impossible to do anything but sit back and crane your neck up at the stars.
As the spinal spasms gave way to an enduring rigidity, my eyes became transfixed by a bright point of light travelling across the sky. At first I assumed it was an aircraft, but the constancy of the direction and speed, as well as a lack of flashing lights promptly scoffed at this theory. Too slow to be anything in the atmosphere, and too fast to be anything far away, I realised it must be a low flying satellite catching rays from a sun that had long since set for me. It maintained its fluorescence across much of the sky, and then suddenly dimmed, presumably as the sun slipped below its horizon.
I sat there for a few minutes, experiencing one of those wonderful moments of calm clarity. Maybe I should write a book. Or go jet skiing. Isn't it funny how tissues always have two layers? There seemed to be little noise apart from my own breathing.
The pacifying calm was suddenly broken by a large smashing sound on the patio, inches behind me. I jumped up, startled, trying to see the cause. My mind flicked through a couple of possibilities: a roof tile had fallen; I was under attack from aliens; a bat had crashed.
A torch revealed the presence of a presumably distraught snail slowly regaining its posture. I looked up at the roof, and down at my glass of wine. A snail had fallen from the roof of my house? A thrill seeking, skydiving snail?
At this point I decided it would be sensible to stop drinking wine, and head indoors for the safety of my bed.
The moral of the story is avoid drunken, nocturnal gardening. One of my neighbours had come home to find a snail on one of her plants. To protect the plant she picked it up and tossed it, but chose rather the wrong place to direct it.
After my pointless and rushed post last night, I went and sat outside under the stars with a glass of wine. It was one of those warm, balmy nights where its impossible to do anything but sit back and crane your neck up at the stars.
As the spinal spasms gave way to an enduring rigidity, my eyes became transfixed by a bright point of light travelling across the sky. At first I assumed it was an aircraft, but the constancy of the direction and speed, as well as a lack of flashing lights promptly scoffed at this theory. Too slow to be anything in the atmosphere, and too fast to be anything far away, I realised it must be a low flying satellite catching rays from a sun that had long since set for me. It maintained its fluorescence across much of the sky, and then suddenly dimmed, presumably as the sun slipped below its horizon.
I sat there for a few minutes, experiencing one of those wonderful moments of calm clarity. Maybe I should write a book. Or go jet skiing. Isn't it funny how tissues always have two layers? There seemed to be little noise apart from my own breathing.
The pacifying calm was suddenly broken by a large smashing sound on the patio, inches behind me. I jumped up, startled, trying to see the cause. My mind flicked through a couple of possibilities: a roof tile had fallen; I was under attack from aliens; a bat had crashed.
A torch revealed the presence of a presumably distraught snail slowly regaining its posture. I looked up at the roof, and down at my glass of wine. A snail had fallen from the roof of my house? A thrill seeking, skydiving snail?
At this point I decided it would be sensible to stop drinking wine, and head indoors for the safety of my bed.
The moral of the story is avoid drunken, nocturnal gardening. One of my neighbours had come home to find a snail on one of her plants. To protect the plant she picked it up and tossed it, but chose rather the wrong place to direct it.
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