Nice... fun... cool... is that all there is left? My vocabulary ebbing with the fuel gauge, I find myself.... "lost for words", and also, apparently, defenceless against the cliché.
Freckled buzz of the untuned radio seems onomatopoeic for the fizzing disintegration of grey matter, hunched blearily over the steering wheel. Where once, a matter of hours ago, it was lodged content- synapses twitching, dimly ticking over in its shell- it now dissolves to sparkless rubble, numb in my skull.
Think I better have some Fruit Pastilles.
It's only what tumbles serenely above the ... "concrete jungle" (it's worse than I thought...) that loosely sutures me to my sanity- clouds. As a Brit, it seems inherently wrong to root for our reluctant signature, our uninvited guests. But they have a "silver lining" (make it stop!). The plumes and gusts glow with dappled composure, poised above the towers, pylons and streetlamps that grapple at their blooms.
Wincing through the blurry windscreen, over the rim of my Coffee Nation, it seems that the sheer regal vastness of the heavens invite a soundtrack, deserve an accompaniment by a cathedral choir. Maybe even a theme tune (a little part of me wants that to be The Verve's 'Bittersweet Symphony'...). Their sleet-shot surges demand a requiem, a canon erupting from on high- to present and announce to us mere mortals below, that the Greatest Show on Earth is, in fact, effortlessly pirouetting atop our chimney pots.
Freckled buzz of the untuned radio seems onomatopoeic for the fizzing disintegration of grey matter, hunched blearily over the steering wheel. Where once, a matter of hours ago, it was lodged content- synapses twitching, dimly ticking over in its shell- it now dissolves to sparkless rubble, numb in my skull.
Think I better have some Fruit Pastilles.
It's only what tumbles serenely above the ... "concrete jungle" (it's worse than I thought...) that loosely sutures me to my sanity- clouds. As a Brit, it seems inherently wrong to root for our reluctant signature, our uninvited guests. But they have a "silver lining" (make it stop!). The plumes and gusts glow with dappled composure, poised above the towers, pylons and streetlamps that grapple at their blooms.
Wincing through the blurry windscreen, over the rim of my Coffee Nation, it seems that the sheer regal vastness of the heavens invite a soundtrack, deserve an accompaniment by a cathedral choir. Maybe even a theme tune (a little part of me wants that to be The Verve's 'Bittersweet Symphony'...). Their sleet-shot surges demand a requiem, a canon erupting from on high- to present and announce to us mere mortals below, that the Greatest Show on Earth is, in fact, effortlessly pirouetting atop our chimney pots.
The thundered footlights dazzle and snap, and from the cosy theatre of my Micra, I forget the gripe of a nation as the sky lit drama unfolds. I raise my hot chocolate dregs in toast, rain faith restored; it's actually pretty cool.
I would take my hat off, to the clouds above, as a sign of admiration and respect. If they didn't insist on, gloriously or not, soaking me within an inch of my life. Hmm. As 'they', I and the sufferers of clichés everywhere, say, "back to square one".
losing my grip? 
