Evidence that it's not just 3 year olds who ask stupid questions
1. Why is that woman on my morning bus, who is actually reading a very slim book, moving her head, from the neck, side by side, in such an extreme fashion as though each page is a metre wide? Does she suffer from 'read-the-margins-and-then-check-either-side-of-the-book-for-attackers' syndrome? She looks like she's watching Wimbledon, not enjoying literature. What does she look like when reading an encyclopaedia? If she was reading a book in a language which reads up and down rather than from side to side, would her head eventually loosen at the neck and drop off? How would other passengers feel as her head rolled down the aisle (perhaps still nodding, like chickens' heads do).
2. Why, while I'm fixing this stamp into the corner of an envelope, do I feel as though I am indulging in a nostalgic country craft of some kind, like building dry stone walls, or hammering horseshoes in a smithy? I feel like I should be wearing a check shirt, a cap and some very dirty dungarees. Why does the handwritten address make me feel as though I was born just after Chaucer? Why does putting the envelope into a postbox make me look round to make sure no one's watching, as though I were indulging in a shameful practice banned since 1969?
3. How come I always see other people out shopping, but never go to the shops myself? Where do they find the time? My work jacket looks fine on the outside, but is disintegrating rapidly on the inside so that bits of the lining keep dropping off if I move too fast. It's embarrassing when someone runs up behind you and says, 'Excuse me, Miss, I think you just dropped something' only to find it's a scrap of grey nylon which has escaped from your attire. So, how long is it going to be before the jacket falls to pieces in front of a class and drops off me like a snakeskin? Would this be the moment to whistle stripper music and pretend it was all planned? Will this, or will it not, detract somewhat from studying paragraph structures?
4. Why, when I peer into a pub window on the way home to see if it has a log fire and would be a suitable venue for sitting and marking, is there always a leery old man looking directly out at me and mouthing the words, 'Come in, darlin'. So, you're not exactly Claudia Schiffer, but I'll buy you a pint and we'll see what happens next. My last wife was just as much of a minger, and she did me for 24 years.'
5. Why, the day I decide to take, not the main road, but a short cut through an alleyway in a wooded area and up some steps in a leafy bank, is that the day it's not lit, but as dark as Hitchcock? How come I've eaten so many carrots lately and yet am having to feel my way along this pitch-black alleyway inch by inch, hoping that soft stuff I'm stepping in is, indeed, leaf mould? What is it about me, though, that has me thinking, 'Oooh, this is exciting. I can't see a THING!' and not, 'Have I written my will, because I am about to be attacked by an axe-murderer?' Is this called bravery, naivety or ... or ... something else?