The Pot Hole

It was anomalous for the Head of Glasgow City Council to receive a postcard at his office. Letters were rare, petitions unusual, emails and post its from his secretary, everyday. The grinning yellow full stop emblazed on the thin white card confronted him like a spoiled ballot.

He flipped to the reverse. The postmark was dated 29th August (his birthday) 1990 – 1990? ‘Glasgow Smiles Better’ came much later, didn’t it? He wasn’t sure; he’d have been in his early 20s. He asked his secretary to phone the postmaster up at St John, curious for a bit of mystery. He headed out for an explanation, dinghying his appearance on a committee dealing with Chronic Poverty in West Partick. Suffice to say, the postmaster never met him. He wasn’t seen for a week until he turned up in the bathroom of ‘Common’ and was thrown out as he appeared to be wearing a 3 piece suit made entirely of old copies of that week’s Evening Times. He tried to flag down a taxi…

but the taxi driver eyed him as one might eye a spider in the corner of their bedroom – that is to say, suspiciously. Undeterred, the Head of Glasgow City Council bowed his head, and started tramping towards home. He pulled his newspaper collar around his neck, bracing himself against the wind. A page flapped from his torso, revealing a singular bald nipple – now stamped with a picture of a cat up a tree, from where the wet paper had clung to his skin. Sobbing, he reached home, only to realise his gate had gone. Kneeling on the damp ground, he tried to trace its shape in the soil; tried to magic it back through sheer determination and will-power. It was then he heard the bleat of a sheep. He turned around, startled. His homing instinct had led him up the garden path! He was crouched in the cowpat caked terrain of a sodden field! Shaking, he unwrapped himself and crawled, naked and ink-stained into a nearby rabbit hole, where he planned to spend the night.