Rowan Tree and Red Thread

It was wet this morning and I have a cold. I got the bus rather than walk to work in the rain. It seemed like a good idea.

I sat on the bus next to a lady who hummed to herself. An endless, tuneless, personal soundtrack accompanied her, full of tiny squeaks, sighs and mmm-ahs. Sitting there stuck in the morning traffic I mentally reviewed at least a dozen murder methods, and various alibis and excuses. I should be grateful that my cold-ridden head kept me sluggish and unable to act.

The woman hummed her way all along Patrick Street, Washington Street and up the Wstern Road. I could almost discern a pattern, some meaning in the sounds. I looked for the bus stop ahead eagerly, afraid that I was being drawn in. Is humming infectious? With my immune system fighting the cold, would I be easy prey for meaningless pseudo-music?

Staggering off the bus into the rain was pure delight. My ears were assaulted by the usual wash of street noise and I walked with a spring in my step.

It was wet this morning and I have a cold. I got the bus rather than walk to work in the rain. It seemed like a good idea. Tomorrow I'll drive to work and sing along to the radio.