I think my inner ear may be bleeding. There is, however, no way of telling as I cannot physically pry the earpieces from my ears. Why, you may ask, are my earphones lodged thus deep within my ears?
It’s because of him. Him, over there. The hippy in the corner with dreadlocks tumbling down his back like a waterfall of turds, flecked with undigested peanuts of colour.
It is not his appearance, although it irks me, that I find so gut-wrenchingly irritating, but the fact that he is playing a Jew’s harp incessantly at 8 am.
I have my MP3 player on full volume, playing the loudest music I own, yet still the endless undulating drone wobbles its way into my brain.
I can only presume that he is playing this instrument because a didgeridoo was too large to tuck into one of the stinking folds of hemp clothing that hangs so baggily from his rat-king body.
It may be salient at this point to disclose that I have not slept, I have not had my morning coffee, and I am stuck at the end of a very long queue waiting to battle with bureaucracy so I can acquire an Indian Visa.
Still, in my book, there is no excuse for a grown man to frigg a mouth-harp with such focus and feigned seriousness at this time in the morning and in this situation. Him, that’s who.
Chain smoke, chat, stare into the middle distance, draw pictures in the dust with your toe, play cards, even do Tai Chi, but please, for the love of Shiva, do not sit cross-legged in front of me and pluck enthusiastically at a ridiculous little musical instrument.
