I Walk the line

I must apologise for this long absence. For failing to wish you lot a Happy New Year (in case your calendar, or your outlook, is Georgian). I hope you stood in line on a showery 31st and awaited my greetings.

I too stood in a line on the 31st. A line for railway tickets. In front of me were many many men. And one specimen. He stood there shifting from a leg to another. Like a panther about to pounce. I imagined his next move. Would it involve a fearful roar and the teller's neck?

He responded by reaching back and scratching his posterior. Lazily. Lovingly. Longingly.

This was mightily interesting.

He smelt his fingers, shook his head, and moved the expeditionary finger party onto, and into, his right ear. The results, though yellow, were dissapointing, but fool's gold. So he switched to an old favourite; the nose. He dug deep, he dug for gold. For muck untold.

In time, that mine played out, and he stood there rocking back and forth. Undecided, dangerous, and armed to the teeth. With a toothpick, cunningly hidden behind the left ear. So, he picked his teeth. Clean. And then, replaced his weapon. But this time behind the right ear.

You can't be too careful about cleanliness.

I wondered what, in his single-minded pursuit of excellence in male grooming, was he going to grab next. Guess?

Like Johnny Cash, I too had walked the line. And, I gave exact change at the counter.