As we navigated the swarming crowds, John was accidentally knocked by a large and bright pink dolphin balloon. Even as an adult, sexually-active, homosexual man, he said that it was the gayest thing that had ever happened to him.
As the car rounded hairpin turns and glided past unguarded drops, we contemplated our mortality and considered the eventuality that the last sound we might hear in our short lives could be the jubilant melody of Germanic Ducktales.
In a murky pond a stone sculpture of a grand ship with a proud, emblazoned sail appeared to float upon the water, with its portly dwarfish crew captained by a stout samurai.
Being alone, I stood to the side and took some photographs, but my alabaster skin betrayed my clandestinity and a couple of merry folk gave me high-fives.
On one of these many colourful cartographies I had found something called the ‘Totoro Forest.’
What is there to fight for? Everything! Life itself, isn’t that enough? To be lived, suffered, enjoyed!
Received wisdom about bear encounters conflictingly suggests running, standing one’s ground, or playing dead; a selection that seems fatally incompatible.
Mountains are quite often used to connote that which is fixed and enduring, but in reality there are few things more changeable than the mountains.
Once in the wake of a contact lens delivery I came back to find a thin cardboard parcel sticking out of my door like someone trying to eat a pizza box from the corner.
Thanks to simplified biological diagrams, a lack of experience of in situ viscera, and a general naivety, I had previously thought of the oesophagus as a clear drop to the stomach, like a stone well to some distant cavern below. It wasn’t until an unwelcome object needed to make the journey through my digestion that I came to realise how ludicrous this image was.