Blossom

As I was riding along Brassmill Lane this morning a Person driving a Huge Articulated Lorry passed me. As they swerved back across the road towards me to avoid the other Person driving a Lorry coming the other way it violently brushed the branches of the cherry trees that line the road.


Pink white blossom and chunks of wood flew like thousands of butterflies and enormous pencils from the trees, twisting, dancing, spinning and clattering about me as I wobbled into the curb inches from my inevitable doom. Falling like snow, I found myself in a beautiful blizzard of petals and logs on the pavement looking up as the soft, feather-like tree prettyfiers fell on my purple wonder-filled face and twisted bone-heap of a body.


All I could think about as I lay there, the rain starting to hammer on my eyeballs, was "That Person driving a Lorry didn't even swerve to avoid those trees, what hope have I?"


"None" said the trees.


I guess it's time I booked another appointment with My Therapist.