The Big Game Hunt

It seemed like a good day. Not one of those where you're sitting on the toilet, realising you've just inadvertently wiped your backside with the bottom of a long white t-shirt. So, I thought I would go on a big game hunt. Not, of course, the smoking gun type, but a 21st century equivalent, where the eager hunter enters the urban jungle in search of bizarre, exotic creatures. These can then be committed to memory in a similar way to Victorians collecting two headed rabbits in glass cases.

Naturally, I started my safari in the teashop where I soon found a mad gesticulator, of the schizoid variety. This lady performed two distinct levels of wild gestures. The first involved lavish circular arm movements like those of a sweating, bug eyed conductor at the Proms. The second level featured rapid side to side hand movements on top of the table, somewhat akin to the sweeping movements of a concert pianist. It was a fascinating sight which reminded me of the old guy in the library, who used to watch drum solos on his computer while at the same time emulating these with his own drum sticks beating down on top of the computer monitor.

On leaving the cafe, I immediately came across a common sentient being. These are people who sit in cars with their engines running for long periods of time gazing into the middle distance. They are quite often cadaverous blokes with black marble eyes, who are still covered in soil from having been dug up, or 18st van drivers who have never learned how to turn off a diesel engine once it's started. 

Further up the street, a gigantic centipede was entering the supermarket. A marvellous sight! This creature was actually a long series of people with sticks and crutches  entering a doorway in close order. The synchronization of legs, sticks and crutches was nevertheless remarkable to behold. 

Inside the supermarket, further exotica gathered around the waterhole. Two good examples of the hybrid trolley person were spotted. These are middle aged people whose forearms are surgically attached to the bar of a shopping trolley, allowing them to lean forward with their heads almost in the basket. Of course the strain of shopping for food is great, and mournful suet pudding faces tell the tale of a grim existence. 

Hybrid types usually manage to coordinate their actions like skilled line dancers, rarely coming into contact with one another, but when this does occur they remain locked and blocked like two bricks in a brutalist building. Years may pass before one of them blinks.

Well today there was no big game gun.

So, perhaps you'll forgive the big game pun.