The Flood

Incidents a-plenty at the weekend, some good, some over-shadowing the good with a pungent whiff of shittiness that had me longing for the far side of the globe, for all its ills. Although there exists a lingering temptation to rant about them, there's little to no point in so doing, so I'll stick the matter under the nearest rug and jump on it for a while until it levels out. The only one I deem relevant here is the flood, clearly the wrath of the big fella for my dismissing the Noahic warnings posted in the scriptures, though in my defence I couldn't possibly have known the event would be localised to my apartment, it all sounded a bit more apocalyptic than that. Allowances have to be made for memory loss, but on no occasion can I recall reading or hearing 'And the Lord sayeth onto them, beware thine washing machine pipe, for it is liable to go kaput.' Note to self: study the bible in more depth in future.

'No major damage,' he says, with a quick check of limbs and vital organs to ensure the beat goes on. The notebook he's been recording random life events/poetry/prose and varying ramblings grows eyebrows and scowls at him, upset by his distancing it from his self. 'It's a self-defence mechanism,' he assures it, haphazardly, 'it's not you it's me.' Luckily for him this line has a tendency to work on inanimate objects. Unluckily for him, he can't quite manage to convince himself he isn't utterly heart-broken at the sodden mess that's been his world for the past cúpla bhliain. Scorning himself for having knocked it on to the floor while sleeping the night before the incident, he shakes his head & quickly reminds himself that he can't be held accountable for his place being a big bag of shite.

The long, short, and otherwise of it is that he's decided to transcribe the events in the book to here, for some sort of safe keeping I suppose, though how safe or otherwise is debatable.'Bollocks to it,' he thinks, incapable of concern and generally apathetic. Thinking haphazardly about the use of the third person, he trails off in random tangental fashion towards a situation where the third person was again thirdly personnified within itself, scratches his skull and concludes that the matter would be a case of speaking in the sixth person, which is just daft. 'We need to get out more,' he says to the other five, 'or less maybe.'