Frayward Thinkers

Resembling a fed-up parent who's been snubbed by a heavily defaced door for the last time, our saviour, our armour in shining knighthood, has sent us out into the ditch of responsibility and horrid independence, where casualties are pushed to the road and forced to fend harder than ever before, and where flickers of life's majority are projected on the fore as a reminder of the monotony—for most of us—of things to come. But, unlike some inconsiderates out there who choose to throw their brought-up-by-hands straight into the fire without so much as an asbestos bandana, ours is kind and thoughtful enough to provide us with suitable inspiration, out of which we managed to forge deceptive word-games and succeed in banishing the cruel caesareans from our once again aptly named strongholds.

We enjoyed our freedom and uninfected habitats like two jolly laural-resters, and all but forgot that which had worried us so when we were initially overrun, but, thanks again to our mentor, we became aware of our selfish ways and expanded our minds to include the poor others out there who have not been so successful in their battles. Eventually we schemed to plunge into the kettle ourselves, with a full-on onslaught of three (for the moment) and marshalled might and courage, and this supplied story-tellers with material to embellish, and children with idols to live up to; we were going to their homeland to lay waste the source of their creation once and for all and shower peace across the rolling hills and lively settlements.

And it is here we sit now around a superbly cartographered map of our destination, that, with the aid of diagrams and complex battle-plans, in theory should see us to victory. Our Captain is suitably donned, and we—me and the one who resists French-leaning foes but welcomes the English-speakers—are also prepared and adequately equipped. Our tally, too, has been carefully hoed, and from here it looks promising. Tomorrow beckons with all the beckoning of a seasoned beckoner, and we await.