Falling through a hedge is easy. Any fool can do it. Preferably a fool. It is all the easier if it is an immature hedge, unthick at its base. Saw-stunted leylandii will work. Why grow such hideous things - perhaps a headlight-stunned fear of the misanthrope world. People are such wankers. Understandable wankers.
Such an ill-formed hedge bounds No. 64, three doors down from his house. It is on a corner. Falling through that hedge is easy, just lay off the brakes and steer into the skid. Falling is easy. When you're pissed. So it goes. Who the fuck said that? a happy-addled brain wanders over the question. Delay. Annoyance. Delay.
Vonnegut. Thank God for that. They haven't killed me yet. Good.
Second thought - am I hurt? No. God protects drunks. Or does he? Chuckles. On balance (more accurately off it), falling through a hedge is easy. Particularly this one. Half (legs) in the street, the rest in someone's garden. Someone - I live three doors away but don't know his/her/their name. So it goes. Bare fragments of reading pulling rank. Half on the lawn. Dew-flecked. Not a flower bed. Good. Such would be vandalism. A warm night, well, not cold and he has on his old waxed jacket. It is a drunk's companion piece - his, mine as the alcohol transports you out of point of view. A universal wisdom. A universal stupidity.
Falling through a hedge is easy. Standing up again is fraught. A grim remembrance chills me. Falling over in the bar. Time for you to go. Walkable. Shit. Undignified. Note to self - dignified drunks are preferable. This is as good a place as any to ponder sleep, perchance to dream. The swimming pool in Sunset Boulevard.
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