The rain falls hard on a humdrum town

Keithe, a plumber.
Image via MK Wiki

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 This town has dragged you down. Oh, the rain... Well, you get the point. Outside, rain fell from the skies, as is customary in such occasions, cutting the air open and bombarding my azaleas. A woodpecker, bedazzled by nature in all her finery, staggered through the air and rounded the corner of my house. Man versus nature is an old tale; an unwinnable battle that neither of us can win. Except  me. I've written an advert, you see.

 Actually, you probably don't see. That's fair enough; after all, I was talking in a somewhat cryptic fashion. Forgive me please, dear reader. I have appealed, you must understand, for an intervention. I've called for a deity to help me against the weather. Through the classified ads in my local paper.


The doorbell rang. You're probably shocked, loyal readers, that it didn't ring at the start of this tale. That's what usually happens around here. I answered, it would be rude not to.


 There was a man on the doorstep. There always is. 7 foot tall, pale and dressed in white robes with blue vest and cape. A coolie hat sat upon his head, the brow hanging above his glowing, blue eyes.


 "Hey, I'm Keith. I'm here about your water problem." he stated matter-of-factly


 "Keith? You're Raiden, aren't you? From Mortal Kombat? You're Raiden the Thunder God."


 "Nah, you must be thinking of someone else." He replied. "Keith, Keith McGregor. I'm a plumber"


 "Ok then, how'll you stop the rain then? If you're just a plumber, and not a thunder god?"


 "Ah, you've got me there!" Raiden replied. "I'm actually Raiden, from the Mortal Kombat series."


 "Yea," I replied. "I said that earlier. Now would you please stop the rain?"


 "Nah, can't do that mate." He replied. "I can just do lightning-based things. I can teleport too. Want to go and get some pizza or something?"


 I shook my head sadly and went back inside. Through the window, I saw flashes of lighting illuminate the night sky, scaring a passing sparrow. A thunderclap reverberated through the house.


 That probably scared the sparrow too.

A fierce gale was blowing outside.

                               Fuckers. Image via WikipediaHowever, seated by my warm fire, it concerned me little. Only the occasional "thud" as a clown was hurled into my wall distrurbed me from my newspaper.

 The doorbell rang. It is, as you may remember dear reader, prone to doing that. I rose from my armchair, tied up my smoking jacket and headed for the front door. Upon opening it, I was greeted by a clown. Like most clowns I meet, he was sad, dejected and dripping with rain.

 "Come in, my good fellow! Come in!" I said. It was to prove a mistake, such sayings.

 The clown entered my house, dripping on the carpet as he did, his big shoes squelching forlornly. I invited him to the living room, where he quickly helped himself to some brandy and took my seat in front of the fire.

 "Are you warm enough?" I asked, with only the slightest hint of anger.

 "No." he replied. Reaching into his oversized trousers, he pulled out a can of petrol. Emptying this over himself (and my armchair) he proceeded to pull a lighter from his pocket.

 "Clowns against bad weather!" he yelled, before immolating himself and my favorite chair.

 I waited a few minutes until the fire had extinguished itself, and sweeped up the remains with a broom. I was getting sick and tired of this happening to me, and first thing tomorrow, I was going to buy a sternly-worded sign that told clowns I did not wish them to call upon me. In the meantime however, I made some tea.

Kitchen. I'm in one. There, you've got your setting. What else do you want, blood?

Kevin. If he was really little.

Image via Wikipedia

It's wet outside. Sitting in the kitchen, drinking some tea, I reflected on that. You may think it's boring, but they were my thoughts, and you have no claim over them. If you're so upset, why not fuck off, back to your fascist thought factories, you scum.
 "Anyway, now I've insulted my readers, I can move on at last." I quipped smugly.
 "Yes. That is often the way" Kevin the snail replied.
I wondered, briefly, why he was now living in my house. I wasn't surprised though - whenever I meet any character with certain odd traits, they seem to move into my house. I guess its the same for everyone, yes?
 "Do you have anything profound to say?" I asked Kevin over my refreshing peppermint tea.
 "No." He replied. "I'm feeling a little under the weather, to be honest."
I nodded.

Kevin was right, of course. High above him, the weather continued to do its thing. I was despondent though - between us, we had nothing intelligent to say. And that severely damaged my ability to be pretentious.

A touch of reality

Hi, its me. The real me, not that fictional me who gets up to all sorts of crazy high-jinx and the like. I'm shorter and more boring, although I occasionally start fires. I though, since this is a blog, I should trot out some mundane observations about whats going on around me and act as if they're profound. See, I did it there already - looked down on bloggers. What a hypocrite I am. I should be stoned for this. If I was, this would probably be a more exciting read, anyway. But I digress, as I am wont to.
 So, what's in the news this week?
There's been a lot of snow here in Scotland. I've had a foot or so at my house, which is more than usual. Pretty exciting, huh? The weather... Earlier, I watched a pheasant walk across an area we'd cleared, before slipping and face-planting a pile of snow. It was tragic, yet hilarious, like an old person slowly reversing into a midget: His cries of alarm not heard by the deaf octogenarian, his tiny, bobbled head not visible in the mirrors. (Don't worry, he's fine. In fact, they become friends after the incident. Unfortunately, they bond over their white supremacist theories, and the world would have been better off with one more dead midget and imprisoned grandfather)
 A foot of snow... Seems a lot to me. Down in England, they've got less and have ground to a standstill, I hear. Of course, the Scot is quick to seize on this. "Bah!" He shouts, "4 inches? That's nothing. This morning, it came up my ankles! Why, I'll have to snorkel the cat before he goes out to do his business!"
 Yes, we have it far worse than the mockable Englishman, and thus have a right to boast. Of course, there're countries in the world with far more snow, far more of the time, which cope much better, but they don't count. I remember a Canadian friend telling me how, in worse conditions, he nearly cut his arm off with a chainsaw, and was chased by a bear.
 But we have it worse.
 I should probably start a facebook group, they can sum up my emotions far better than I can.