Remember that day when David Bellamy lost the moon?
It was only a few years back, he was in charge of it for the requisite week (everyone is in charge of the moon for a week of their life, I did it when I was seven) and Prince Charles commissioned a film to mark the event.
Anyway, while they were filming, the damn thing just dissapeared. I mean it literally fucked off for biscuits. No-one could understand it. This was happening on live TV.
Was it the end of the world? Some said so.
During the phenomenon I fancied I saw bats gathering at the windows. Seething eyes questing for an entrance to my flat and then to my innerds.
It wasn't to be, though. The moon returned, as we always knew it would.
I think we like to fear the worst. It had just been some strange eclipse caused by the cosmic wake of a gigantic passing interdimensional mammalian.
In the morning I went for an early stroll, before the council swept the streets. I had to step carefully over the rigid carcasses of several thousand dead bats.
No comments:
Post a Comment