Avenues

Sometimes life does things that you just aren't expecting.

For instance one morning you may come across a crumpled five pound note in the street. 'Ah,' you'll think to yourself, 'I'm going to treat myself to a coffee and a bagel with this free, slightly smelly, crumpled five pound note.' And you'll hurry along to the nearest coffee shop, not looking where you are going and get run over buy a bus. The five pound will whaft out of your hand and float onto the pavement for someone else to pick up. 


You weren't expecting the five pound note. You weren't expecting the bus. 


When is it that we should take note of the unexpected? The above example is flighty whimsy, but life is a tricksy bastard . . . 


Imagine. I am walking down a path.  There is green either side of me and the track below is made of small shale pebbles. In front of me I see a fork, behind which, both avenues look identical, although I know they will be different. I stand patient and wait for a sign. Nothing presents itself and so I start off down the right-hand path. I stop. Slowly I reverse and walk back to the fork. Staring the choice hard in the face I want for something to change. I sit on the floor and wait. Time shifts. The grass grows brown and everything moves on. The light rises and falls, descending me into darkness. Years pass; there are no signs but I continue to wait. One morning I awake, in front of the fork, and stand. My knees creak as I push myself off the floor. I look at my hands. The skin on them folds and wrinkles. I am old. My hair cascades down my back and is a blanket of coarse grey so long it trails far beyond my waist. I turn to the fork no longer angry, no longer determined; now I am only tired. I turn left. A heaviness is upon my legs that I have never felt before and it is an effort to walk down the avenue. But I do, and I continue. I just keep walking. I am too old to care about the right avenue now. 


Both avenues lead to the same place. 


Life is a tricksy bastard, and who knows which avenue is the right one. Ultimately, though, does it really matter?

If I were in a Western...

If I were in a Western I'd want to wear big cowboy boots and an oversized hat. One of my teeth would be missing - except it wouldn't really... I'd have covered it in soot so it looked like it was missing. There'd be a red and white spotty rag tied around my neck and I'd have a snarl... When I raised my lip on the right-hand side of my mouth my gappy teeth would show.


It would be dusty. Everywhere dusty, and so scorching hot the wooden shacks on either side of the dry road would wobble when you looked at them. An old man in a hat with a beard so long it touched his chest would sit outside a long closed chemist - hat tipped over his eyes, would sleep. His snore gently wafting on the heat-waves. Four empty beer bottles left under his chair, long forgotten and sand coated, attracting roaches and giant ants.


And there I'd be. Hat too big and shoes too clumpy. My gun in my holster I'd have just left the saloon after drinking 'Smokey Joe's Cough Medicine'... clunk clunk clunk, go my boots.
"Hey thur..." Shouts a stout, dark haired, dirty looking man.
"Who, me?"
"Yar, you... You're new in these here parts"
"I am"
"Well thun I say it's time for a showdown"


Cue tumbleweeds. (And a bit of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly music.)


 We walk up to stand face to face. He smells of sour beer, his stubble days old and gritty. The heat is rising and a bird flies past. He has a lazy eye which makes me grin, but not too much for I am frightened he may shoot me like a dog if I laugh in his face. There is an ant crawling on my knee and I want to squish it, but now is not the time..We turn... back to back.


"On three, we walk" I say, "and after four paces we turn... and then....."
"And thun...."
"One. Two. Three"


Slowly our backs leave each other. I hear his boots grind into the stones. My hands shake by my holster. Beads of sweat forming on my brow I imagine sweat trickling from under his hat. Step four, I spin round and the sun momentarily strikes my face. I turn, he turns... there's a lot of turning going on. Guns out of holster...


BANG -simultaneous.


Silence. Nothing happens. Time has stopped as smoke slowly drifts out of our guns. The town hall clock stops ticking...


Together we fall. Both hit. My hat, too big, slides off the back of my head as I fall backward. He crumples down, gun slipping out of his hand, knees buckling forward. Eight paces apart falling together. His face crashes to the dirt, stones searing into his cheek. I smash onto the road sand puffing out from underneath me. I see the brilliant blue sky above. The sun strikes my face again... I think about his lazy eye. I start laughing.


If I were in a western.