Batty

I left the wannabe bat wing mirrors, the ping-pong playing Vespas; but I hadn’t walked more than a couple of streets when I came to a door: a bat door. Even though I couldn’t have been further from Nuneaton I thought of Larry Grayson: “Shut bat door”. 

I put my ear to the door half-expecting to hear the sound of ping- pong. I peered through the keyhole: two road menders with giant ping-pong ball heads, admiring their faceless faces in wing-mirrors. No, the only thing I could make out was a teaspoon.

Batty or what? I retraced my steps, back to the duelling Vespas. It was I who had become the ball - driven between door and wing mirror. And I liked being hit. My random backstreet wandering had at last found a direction. I was driven. Happy even.