Slapstick Mornings

Yesterday, as I was walking up Sira Selviler to catch the service bus, a car came speeding down the street, as they tend to do in this fair city. It took no notice of me, or it if did, it sure didn’t slow down, and it ripped through a fresh puddle, sending a gigantic splatter of muddy water that drenched me from head to toe, like a scene straight out of a cartoon. I would have turned around and shaken my fist at them, but they were already long gone, far from concerned about the wet pedestrians they left in their wake. Thankfully, I was wearing black.

Today, when I rushed out of the building and into the gray overcast morning, I felt a few sudden drops and heard a loud splatter. “Is it raining?” I thought, “Did someone dump out a bucket of water onto the street?” I wiped off a drop that had landed on my lip with my finger and saw that it was white. It then dawned on me that I had received an early morning dollop of bird poop on my face and checked the rest of my clothing. I had remarkably escaped nearly unscathed, with only a few spatters here and there, which is more that I can say for the sidewalk.

So now I wonder: what will greet me tomorrow on the way out the door? I’ve got my money on a pie in the face.