Questions

I blinked out of my office into the sunset. My head was sore after another eight hours of trying to make a dent into the wall. No dice. Maybe cement was stronger. For the moment though I could look forward to an unquestioning and soft pillow.

It wasn't to be.

The dame Fortuna was awaiting around the next bend with a sledgehammer in the form of more questions. Fifty metres up there was a white thing, spinning around in the middle of the road. There was dark blue car parked next to it. Questions bombarded my brain like shotgun pellets on a tresspassers bottom. Was it a top, a disembodied fan, or was it a miniature cement mixture trying to break the local cement-mixing speed record. Under this fresh onslaught of questions I felt like a slug with a headache on whom a three ton safe is about to fall from the ninth floor.

I crept up closer.

It was white pullovered young man spinning around on his feet. In the middle of the road? Why? The question hung heavy on me, like a particularly wet pair of waterlogged shorts after a long run through a thunderstorm.

I sneaked up.

Suddenly, all the pieces of the jigsaw fell in place as Canterbury men do after a hard Friday night. There was a pretty young thing giggling in the car.

Men... Women can make them do the silliest things.