A measure of truth

Many years ago I was doing that tricky thing of walking across a crowded pub with three pints of beer in triangle formation between cupped palms. I walked past a woman with long curly hair and was drawn to the fact that someone had walked past her with a lighted fag, the end of which had come off and lodged in her flowing pre-Raphaelite locks. I yelled over the noise. “Excuse me but your hair is on fire”. She turned around and yelled “What?”. “You have a fag in your hair. Your hair is on fire”., I said, nodding and grinning like a helpful idiot. By now I could see the increasingly red glow and smell the burning. At which point her boyfriend intervened. “Are you being funny or something. F**k off”.
 
I left them to it. About three minutes later, predictably, I heard screams and shouts. But it was a big and very crowded South London boozer and I couldn’t be bothered to fight through the crowd just to say “I told you so”.
 
Cassandra, her of the Trojan legends, had a similar problem.  The God Apollo gave her the power of prophecy — but when she refused him sexual favours, he spat into her mouth to inflict a curse that nobody would ever believe her prophecies. So when she said “that horse looks a bit dodgy to me, I wouldn’t bring it into the city” nobody took any notice of her.
 
I sometimes have a similar problem. People don’t listen to me when I tell them what’s coming. Happens to me a lot at the moment …. 


Anyway ...


We had a rat in the corner cupboard tonight. Nearly wrecked the house trying to get him, then lost him. The cats sniffed all over the place then I turned 'round to see he had slipped out through the French windows and was running down the garden. Probably whistling "The Great Escape" too no doubt. Remarkable.