They do!
They think (I use the word loosely) that it's cool to breenge through a pastoral and serene landscape with their noise and pollution. I've seen it too many times now, whether a leaf-blower blowing nothing, or the Range Rover that thinks it's a bicycle, they think it's cool to shit all over the Earth like an infant and expect somone else to clean it all up. Like this overweight moron on his jet-ski slicing through an otherwise idyllic little landscape.
It's only when you pass thru farms as often as I do that you realise that they really are concentration camps for animals. The word 'farm' itself is wholly innocuous and conveys nothing of the horror that happens on it. I regularly hear howls and screaming from animals from nearby sheds when I pass through farms. Animals in fields generally look bored and sedated and afraid. And then there are the torture instruments lying around in the most unusual of places. Today, it was the 'general breaker', a supergun of terrifying proportions that is used to break various things including I imagine the land.
I've had my fair share of the uncanny, the synchronous, and the downright weird and bizarre, but none moreso than this morning when I turned up at a spot I had earmarked for some street art only to find a police car waiting. It was like that scene in Heat when the cops are waiting for the robbers outside the bank. Except there, the polis were tipped off. Here, no-one tipped them off because no-one knew except me. Now, let me qualify this. This is a spot I have cycled past hundreds of times without spray paint cans in my bag. And yet, the one day I decide to paint some road sign, I have two police people standing right next to it. When I passed I asked the female police officer what the problem was. She answered as all police people answer, obtusely, and said there was no problem. When I then pointed to the moped that had been parked half on the pavement and half on the road and asked her what this was doing here, she replied that someone had reported it stolen bla bla bla. 'Oh, so that's the problem', I said before cycling on. I then embarked upon my route into the hills and back, having stashed my cans just out of sight of the police, and when I returned two hours later they were still there, now sitting in their car. I could not believe the coincidence and the synchronicity of these events. Clearly, or maybe, unclearly, I am trying to say something to myself. But what?
Answers on a postcard please.
