I had quite a lot to drink this Saturday night. I was taking part in an annual Wassailing festival, drinking plenty of warm mulled cider and singing incantations to any apple trees within earshot who happened to be listening, with the dual aims of increasing this year’s fruit harvest through spiritual means, that and getting royally slizzard.
I can report considerable success in the latter (I’ll keep you posted on how the apples turn out), and the late phases of the evening saw the whole group of us grinning our way through the program of music and dancing, until our conscious mindsets were quite a long way removed from reality. It was as I was headed towards this higher state of being that I found myself out in the car park and confronted by a piece of car that I genuinely didn’t recognise. I actually began to panic. I’m usually so completely immersed in the world of cars that I can identify pretty much everything at all likely to be found on the road with my eyes closed, my nose blocked and my ears taped shut. Yet here I was looking at a section of sheet metal that, as far as I was concerned could have come from outer space.
I was losing it. My brain had turned to mush. I don’t do drugs (er, aside from alcohol and caffeine) but I was quite clearly tripping.
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