Quo Vadis Squirrely?

The bass guitar clicked an electric lick that she felt and heard all the way upstairs, the sound swallowed by the singer’s baritone white lightning womanising frisky risky whisky-tine voice going on ceaselessly and incessantly lyrics lingering lasciviously then popping out of space time and memory, but she caught the refrain.


It was time to go home wherever her hat was.

Drawing conclusions and the bedspread back she sprang into action and out of the geriatric gym palace running lickety-sprint into the forest thinking Shirley a misprint.

‘Look,’ said the squirrels. ‘Look at Miss Shirley miss Brent.’

‘I don’t miss him at all,’ she thought hat tall and loudly enough that all the squirrels heard her including the deaf patriarch of the whole squirrel herd.

The patriarch drawled, ‘that’s too many awls,’ and decided on the evidence she was nuts and ordered his compatriots to bury her for winter larder.

‘To Nola’s veil,’ she riposted breaking off mental conversation and fenceposts to build a fire.

She soon had the fenceposts at her mercy and the kindling split and incontestably incandescently ignited and at ideal squirrel roasting temperature and was sure she could bag some of the rapscallion rodents with her competition-grade 22 Long rifle with crosshair scope.

‘Except you can’t throw it this high,’ said the patriarch laughing and holding up the last box of ammunition squirrelled away while she was building the fire.

‘I need a long tall cool think,’ she said. She inspired, she expired or near as dammit: she retired.

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