The Life And Times Of Arthur Dent

Day 235 and a Happy International Towel Day to you all!

(Quoting Douglas Adams):
On Wednesday night it had rained very heavily, the lane was wet and muddy, but the Thursday morning sun was bright and clear as it shone on Arthur Dent's house for what was to be the last time.

It hadn't properly registered yet with Arthur that the council wanted to knock it down and build a bypass instead.

At eight o'clock on Thursday morning, Arthur didn't feel very good. He woke up blearily, got up, wandered blearily round his room, opened a window, saw a bulldozer, found his slippers, and stomped off to the bathroom to wash.

Toothpaste on the brush - so. Scrub.

Shaving mirror - pointed at the ceiling. He adjusted it. For a moment it reflected a second bulldozer through the bathroom window. Properly adjusted, it reflected Arthur Dent's bristles. He shaved them off, washed, dried and stomped off to the kitchen to find something pleasant to put in his mouth.

Kettle, plug, fridge, milk, coffee. Yawn.

The word bulldozer wandered through his mind for a moment in search of someting to connect with.

The bulldozer outside the kitchen window was quite a big one.

He stared at it.

"Yellow," he thought, and stomped off back to his bedroom to get dressed.

Passing the bathroom he stopped to drink a large glass of water, and another. He began to suspect that he was hung over. Why was he hung over? Had he been drinking the night before? He supposed that he must have been. He caught a glint in the shaving mirror. "Yellow," he thought, and stomped on to the bedroom.
He stood and thought. The pub, he thought. Oh dear, the pub. He vaguely remembered being angry, angry about something that seemed important. He'd been telling people about it, telling people about it at great leangth, he rather suspected: his clearest visual recollection was of glazed looks on other peoples' faces. Something about a new bypass he'd just found out about. It had been in the pipeline for months only no one seemed to have known about it. Ridiculous. He took a swig of water. It would sort itself out, he'd decided, no one wanted a bypass, the council didn't have a leg to stand on. It would sort itself out.

God, what a terrible hangover it had earned him thought. He looked at himself in the wardrobe mirror. He stuck out his tongue. "Yellow," he thought. The word yellow wandered through his mind in search of something to connect with.

Fifteen seconds later he was out of the house and lying in front of a big yellow bulldozer that was advancing up his garden path.

*****

Crow speaking: Do you know where your towel is?

*****

It was a quiet morning in Pack Forest, and I had gone in search of Vogons (or at the very least, a yellow bulldozer), clad in a dressing gown, slippers (I call them by their Spanish name, pantuflas; I like the sound of that word...pantuflas), and lacking a bowler, my Boy George hat. It had rained heavily the night before, and the grounds were wet and muddy. I was not hung over, and therefore perceived the great hulking yellow machine quite clearly as it bore down upon me from the Vortex. Was I afraid? Not I! I had my Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy in hand, and I had my towel. There would be no panicking on my part on this day, although I can't speak for the people in the car which came out of the housing area while I was standing there with arms raised.