Tuesday is a New Day

So this is my idea of having fun while writing. I definitely had Douglas Adams in mind at the time, and then later I could clearly see a poor man's version of the Zapp Brannigian (Futurama) character coming through.

It was a fine day in Cranbrook on that fateful day of Tuesday. Tuesday, being neither mid-week nor the beginning, is probably the most unremarkable day of the week. Granted, it never tried to be remarkable, on account of it having no consciousness, but then it should've thought of that.

It was earlier that I'd decided that going to the seaside would be a grand escapade, worthy of a day-out for any young male who wanted a breath of fresh air from the claustrophobia of modern town life. My arm swung violently outside the door of the Volkswagen Polo in a care-free and boyish fashion, as if I were one of those young teenage American's in the 60's, that they have in movies sometimes. Driving through sun drenched suburban streets, with a wink and a smile at passing pedestrians. I didn't have the slick gelled hair, or the Ford Mustang, or the right time period, but the spirit was there.

"You there." I sniped at a passing brute with the burgeoning gut of an over inflated balloon.
"What's up, mate?"
"I wish to know the location of the sea from my current coordinates."
"Well.. You need to go to the coast then. It's about 50 miles to the nearest beach from here."
"May you confirm that I am now in Cranbrook?"
"Well, yeah, of course you are."

What had happened? How could this be? I was land-locked. But my knowledge of English geography was of course, infallible. It appeared that in this time of immigration which is so often the topic of choice for middle aged jean wearing presenters of Top Gear, that Cranbrook had changed it's location. Perhaps it had done so in an effort to escape political persecution, or possibly because it was scared of water, or France. For whatever reason it was, I threw my leftover Subway sandwich at the man in an attempt to appease any feelings of hunger he may of had towards me, and made my escape. Onward, was the only way forward, as an intellectual might say.

50 miles east? No, too ethnic. 50 miles west? Too cold. So I'd heard. How about North? Too many hills. South it would be. South I would travel, as if gently maneuvering my way down Great Britannia's shapely and alluring figure, eventually reaching a promised dip into fertile waters. How could she resist me?

To be Continued.