MOLE REMEMBERS SOMETHING

The Mole had been working hard all the week, trying to improve his little life. First online, then from Estate Agents' leaflets; then scanning all those column inches, with furious intensity; till he he had poison in his throat, RSI in his fingertips (why had he never learned to type?) and an aching head. Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little office with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder then, that he suddenly scattered all the paper on the floor, said "Fuck it!" and "Screw this!" and also "Bugger flats and mortgages!" and bolted out of the room without even waiting for the noisy computer to shut down properly. Something outside was calling him imperiously, so he wasted no time and ran into the garden with his guitar. Then he strummed and sang and crooned and hummed, and worked the fretboard for all he was worth. And he called his flatmate, who came running. The two tiny creatures put on loud music and danced in a frenzy and all the sun poured down in beneficent rays.

(Obviously there was no time for blogging!)