Is that banjo music I hear?
A warm, sunny day and a couple of Electric Woodbines all conspired to make a walk in the woods seem like a fine idea. What better way to relax than the gentle susurrus of the wind in the leaves, the distant call of the woodpigeon, and the caressing warmth of dappled sunlight on my pale and jaded skin?

So I set off, up a tree-lined path which started near my house. As I approached the main body of the woods, I became aware of some unusual noises ahead. A couple of cracks, or perhaps bangs. What could that be? A pleasant puzzle to idly mull over, as I strolled along. A puzzle which was suddenly and brutally resolved as I reached the woods, as two guys appeared, one each side of the gate, carrying shotguns. Well, some kind of gun, anyway -- this being the UK, I'm hardly an expert. They were rather scruffy, and looked a bit surly, but being English I did what we always do when faced with a situation we don't know how to handle - I ignored it and hoped it would go away. So I continued on, walking between them through the gate, essentially ignoring them even though I was acutely aware of them staring at me.

As they passed out of sight behind me, I heard the one sound you really don't want to hear in this situation: a gun being pumped and a round chambered. But still I pressed on, walking normally and turning onto the main path, expecting a blast of buckshot to violate my flesh at any moment. My heart was pumping and my brain screaming, but as the seconds dragged past I began to think I had, perhaps, made it.

Until a third man stepped out of the bushes directly in front of me, swinging what looked like a motorcycle chain and smacking it into his hand rhytmically.

This, apparently, was it. I was about to be beaten to a bloody pulp, or perhaps strung up and used as target practice - or worse - by these three armed thugs. My heart was pounding like a Gabba fan on a three-day amyl frenzy, and my vision was starting to tunnel. I think I continued stumbling forward merely because the signals from my brain were completely scrambled by the abject, bowel-loosening terror of immanent, painful death.

...which, of course, never came. The guy with the chain turned out to be walking his dog, and the lads with the guns - which were probably air-guns, truth be told - wandered off down the path. I have no memory of getting back home, but I think I hid under the duvet for some hours, muttering to myself.

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(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Thu 15 May 2014, 13:40, 1 reply)

you certain it was a dog and not an otter?

( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Thu 15 May 2014, 14:32, closed)