The lady flittered to her desk and winced as the Scotch bonnet slipped off her head and into her eyes.
Its future intent unknown to her, but not to the crowd of Arab hagglers waiting by her red Sord Fierra.
They stood, lugs akimbo, muttering salutations to whomever whispered within walking distance of their hairs and grapesies.
The lady, whom we call Simon, spied the intolerant noise-grabbers from here. She was not a muse, Ed.
After they become bored and took their bizarre behaviour to the bazaar, she lifted her shirts, and one blue shirt and tiptoed her precarious Way into the cold wind outside. Her Way wasn’t happy and looked back with Scorn. Simon shrugged and followed Behind, Way and Scorn. Behind, however, was used to this sort of intolerable behaviour, therefore led Way and Scorn into the busy street.
As they rounded a corner, the light of day shone into her eyes. She demanded it stop, because her eyes were already sore from the Scotch bonnet incident further up the page.
Day directed its light, apologetically, to her feet. They didn’t mind as they have no eyes. But, did smell very well thank you very much.
“What is the meaning of life?” Lady Simon called to an improbable crowd who appeared as if written by an unseen left hand.
“Why does it have to have meaning?” The crowd called back, as one. Although weren’t too sure which exact one.
Lady Simon may have rolled this poser around her head, but the Scotch bonnet was in the way.
“If it doesn’t have meaning then why are we bothering?” She fired back, just missing a flying fox.
“Now you is all-a-thinking!” The crowd happily volleyed, with a cheeky smidgen of back-spin that pleased the flying fox no end.
“What does that even begin to Have a notion of meaning?” Simon asked.
“It means life is life. Why does it have to have to have meaning?”
“Because God made us for a purpose.” She replied with a smug shanty of her hips.
“That was a typo,” the crowd called in unison. “It was meant to Say: God made us and the porpoise. Anyhow, if their is a god, and that all depends on the platypus conundrum, his porpoise ended at the rainbow. Go look there.”
And that is what Lady Simon Is doing right now.
Wherever there’s a rainbow lighting up the sky, you’ll find her shuffling towards it. Though, never quite reaching it. Rainbows, after all is said or sang, are tricky little suckers.
The Scotch bonnet’s dried up on her matted hair; obsession now replacing it in her milky white eyes. For an age, and a little bit longer, she has pulled her ancient bones along the rainbow road.
The answer tickles the tips of her wrinkled fingers, though never her dry palms. She is sure it is written between yellow and pink.
Although she was once sure that Mars was made of chocolate and that a finger of fudge was just enough to give your kids a treat.
She’s odd like that.