The yoghurt of despair

I don’t know if you’ve heard a creaking noise recently, but don’t worry if you have; it’s not an imminent earthquake – well, I suppose it could be, but you’ll probably know by now if Nature has decided to chuck her weight about.  The creaking I’m referring to is the low thrumming noise caused by my brain working.  I’ve been working out a new plot, you see.  Thoughts writhed like threshing snakes, synapses threaten to part under the strain, random post-it notes appeared above the cooker, and all seemed dark.  Wow.  Apart from the sheer tension of the thing, it  gives you such a dismal view of life.

You see, in normal, everyday life, I’m tolerant of cats, (even when they poop in the bedroom – see previous posts where I’ve mentioned this less than lovable habit!) pleasant to kids, regularly help old ladies across the street (whether they want to cross the road or not) a walker of dogs, a cooker of meals, and so on and so forth. I am, more or less, merely a vat or container for the milk of human kindness, a veritable shining light.  A spiritual boy scout, you might say.

But there’s a darker side.

You see, in my sort of books, I have to postulate (and, by gum, that hurts if you’re not expecting it, I can tell you, and the cream the doctor gave me doesn’t work at all!) about one, two or several people in whom the milk of human kindness hasn’t so much gone off but has turned into a solid green mass of bacterial lumps. They are possessed by the yoghurt of despair, the cheesecake of crime.

I mean, by and large, I like (see claim to Boy-Scoutness above) my fellow-citizens and think well of them. So why should a group of the aforesaid f.c.’s suddenly decide to throw caution to the winds and start sticking pointed implements into each other, reaching for sandbags and thinking the day’s lost if they haven’t had their quota of corpses?

The answer to that question is called A Plot, and thinking it up is blinking hard.  But I’ve got there.  On Friday, at five past three, came the sound like that of a Great Amen mixed with the overjoyed cackle of a hen who’s laid an egg, and I joined the ranks of humanity once more.  All I need now is for David Beckham to make a miracle recovery and for England to win at rugby, and peace, perfect peace, is mine.  I think a drink is called for!