DIRECTIONS

 

‘Am I at a CROSSROADS?’ she wailed,

Dropping her face into her hands, despairing.

 

‘Well,’ a little voice spoke up, from somewhere,

‘You didn’t say T JUNCTION.’

 

‘Whaaat!  What’s the difference?’ she moaned,

(not quite altogether but alert enough to question).

 

‘Choice,’ said  the wispy voice.

‘Three instead of two – directions, I mean.

One presumes one is not going backwards.

Nor,’  blathered on the wheezy whisper,

‘Did you specify - END OF THE ROAD as in

DEAD END or DANGER: DROP OFF.’

 

‘Good grief! Do I need this pointless palaver?’

She groaned, exasperated by the interference,

Wanting  only to wallow at will.

 

‘Obviously, you do,’ came the rather curt reply,

‘Your choice of predicament will dictate your progression

And thus the means of proceeding,

And therefore you will clearly see - (elaborate pregnant pause) -

That greatly over-touted but potently reliable

FIRST STEP!’

 

‘Oh shut up. Just shut up!

You weasly, pompous, textbook -  tongue!’

(The juicy adjectives tasted delicious and ‘tongue’ was quite artsy.)

 

The little voice chortled wickedly,

‘Ah, but you’re thinking – you’re thinking.

Get some backbone, Woman!

Drop the Pink Petunia act.

You said CROSSROADS!

RIGHT or LEFT or STRAIGHT AHEAD!

Move it!’

 

So - she made a cuppa,  found a pad and pencil, and started lists,

With the merest hint of a skewed smile.

‘Bloody Bossy Boots!’