Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. ~E.L. Doctorow

If you are looking for the truth stop here. If you yearn for a tale of justice and good triumphing over evil or a love story of epic proportions then this is not the one for you. This is not a love story. It is not a glorious biography of a plucky young person who rises above all the great tragedies of the world to save a person, family, village or country. No. This is not that story.

Or is it? Any story, after all, is every story. There is nothing new under the sun. The horrible, debilitatingly vile thing that happened to you has happened in the exact same way to countless others. If that thought depresses you just remember that every glorious triumph is also a shared experience. If that depresses you then you’re an asshole.

But let us leave these ruminations for another time . . . .

It was a bright and sunny day. The clouds frolicked across the sky like wee little lambkins. A breeze, reminiscent of thyme and honeysuckle, blew gently over the clipped and manicured lawns. In short, it would seem, God was in his heaven and all was right with the world. Which just goes to show that people who put their faith in foreshadowing are suckers.

Not, you understand, that anything particularly nasty or horrible was about to happen. No. Not a bit. But, as Dorothy Parker pointed out, it’s the messes that kill us. The ordinary every day horrors. The three horsemen of the apocalypse are not, as others would have you believe, War, Famine and Plague. They are Boredom, Apathy and Regret. They come on pale horses to rob us slowly. At least War and Plague (usually) have the decency to kill ya’ quick. But, as I say, it was a fine day which served to show up the little woes of the woman sitting on the grass in sharp relief.

Not that she had much to be woeful about. The good fairies that are genetics had given her quite a few christening gifts. She was bright, moderately talented in various artistic fields and, in the right light or frame of mind, rather attractive in a strange, can’t quite put your finger on it kind of a way. And, if, on occasion, she was left to wonder why she was only moderately talented instead of a flaming genius or why she wasn’t blessed with the stunning good looks of the “Wow, buddy! Got to get me some of that” variety, well, what’s a picnic without a couple of ants?

On this morning the picnic was covered in honey and the ants were the kind that bite. Hard.