Streaker

Last night I woke sprawled face down like a starfish across my double bed, in just a pair of underpants. I must have tried to embrace my bed in a bear hug out of joy for finally seeing it. That’s right, I think to myself. I came home on the train last night and had to wait forever for it. No wonder bed was obviously a disorganised event consisting of Aim and Flop. The process was more than likely hastened by tripping over the cuffs of my jeans as I tried to step out of them.

Why did I wake from the depths of my overtired, exhausted and somewhat alcohol induced slumber?

Rain. A downpour of summer storm proportions. We’ve been having heaps of those lately in Vicsville. Normally it would be a great feeling to roll over, stretch a bit and then settle in to listen to the beautiful sounds it creates, bask in the smell of rain and the cool breeze it brings. I have always loved a downpour. It gets into your soul. It calms you in a way that nothing else can. It is contentment.

This time it is panic.
It is panic, and near-naked streaking.

Out into the common driveway of six units I went at full sprint. Underpants hanging around my arse, tits (stupid things they are) heaving in all the wrong ways, and car keys gripped in my hand.

How the hell I remembered that the windows were down I have no idea. In those twenty seconds of full world exposure I managed to get my only item of clothing, my underpants, completely saturated.

With my entire body wet, still exhausted and probably still drunk, I ditched the soggy, floppy underdacks without ceremony right next to the pair of jeans I’d tripped out of. No sitting back and basking in the sounds tonight. Straight back to embracing the bed and the sleep that comes hand in hand with it.