quick fic
Neil Young might have been right when he sang that flying on the ground is wrong - but I don't think he had me in mind at the time, not me, not this house and certainly, most assuredly, not this skin irritating ash dottled faded blue sandpaper of a carpet.
Still, all the same - it was nice of him to pen a number cute enough and hooky enough to distract me - to give another voice, and a humorous one at that, the chance to comment on (and add a welcome chorus to) the ludicrous action right here, right now.
Oh sorry, did I say action? My mistake, considering that I’m not actually moving, all the action is uh, well, rather internalised. Like an injury.
Grotesque isn’t it, all this, just look at all this mess here – and the scale’s all wrong, the wing, the broken bloody wing, the little plastic air-fix engines, all the hours they took, the genuinely retractable undercarriage, yeah I think that’s a wheel over there. Hard to tell, hard to see clearly when your face is in the plush and one of your eyes is pressed shut, or at least I think it is.
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