Friday, 15 January 2010


*scratch, scratch, scratch*

As contemplation begins, the customary stroking of the hairy growth around the chin area that men are wont to call a beard begins. Inspiratory technique is begun. The eyes roam around the surroundings, in search of a suitable target. No target acquired. The fingers cease their chinny caress.

*huuuuuuuummmmmmmm, whhhhiiiiinnnnnneee*

The sound of beard scratching is gone and all that remains is the noise of a gently idling computer, undisturbed by writerly motions and notions.

*clunk, clunk, rustle, clunk, squeak, squeak*

The guinea pigs are on the move. Their regular abode abandoned during the wintery weather, they begin their nocturnal ramblings in the indoor sanctum.

*rattleclatter, clink, clink*

It's programme complete, somewhere in the kitcheny region, the dishwasher is divulging it's culinary-catching and creating paraphernalia. Their surfaces shiny and rinsed, they are being returned once more to their cupboard-based depths to lurk in darkness until hunger calls.


A metaphorical noise. Inspiration strikes. Also metaphorically otherwise it would have shortly been accompanied by the sound "ow". The fingers flex and poise. They are ready. The dance begins...

*click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack....*

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