Dark grey clouds provide the landscape as I look out from the deck of my newly constructed ark. A vessel built on a whim two weeks prior to the arrival of the seemingly endless precipitation which’s dogged West Yorkshire of late,
Unlike Noah, there’s not two of every animal on my buoyant new abode which as I write has commenced sailing at pace through Ossett High Street. Instead my cargo is made up of 3 cases of Birra Moretti lager, 18 crates of sauvignon blanc, 900 Pot Noodles, 450 toilet rolls, 12 concubines and my pet hamster Reg…….. Old Reggie appears suitably unimpressed that I didn’t bring him along a mate.
S**t I’ve just realised I’ve forgotten the bloody kettle so am unable to cook the Pot Noodles….. As Samuel Taylor Coleridge once nearly wrote in his iconic poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, “Water, water everywhere and not a kettle to hydrate my Pot Noodle.”
Unless you count fresh water fish, a plethora of ducks and swans there’s not much in the shape of life to see on Ossett High Street. There’s one guy sat with his fishing rod who waved as I passed in the ark. He yelled to me he was fishing for brie, but as that’s a cheese I assume he meant bream.
Only the roofs of the Main Street shops are visible. I’ve just passed the roof tiles of the store labelled the “S**t Shop” by my idiosyncratic chum Sarah. A moniker bequeathed because apparently you can buy any old s***e there.
This conclusion reached by my eccentric buddy after managing to procure a pair of sunglasses for her German Shepherd dog Zella. She also peddles an unlikely yarn the bag for life she purchased there is actually a rhinos scrotum.
Looking back toward the ark’s stern, in the distance it appears the guy fishing seems to have caught a large Edam wax ball…. Perhaps he was fishing for cheese after all!
The water current is now guiding me along the section of road on Ossett’s outskirts called the ‘Mad Mile’. This pseudonym gained due to, prior to the installation of speed cameras in the area, car drivers were prone to travel this road stretch at speeds similar to Lewis Hamilton when overtaking F1 rivals.
It appears the newly arrived waterways currents want to take me to witness what Wakefield city centre looks like as a latter day Atlantis.
The historic cathedral city with it’s high security prison , Rooftop Gardens club venue and eccentric busker outside Boots crafting power tool shapes with balloons, a newly adopted home for yours truly after moving into my (now late) mum’s gaff two and a half years ago.
Eddying waters have just drifted yours truly serenely past Wakefield Cathedral’s iconic spire, the rest of the building under the deluge of H2O which’ve spewed relentlessly from nimbus clouds within the last week.
All I could see above ‘sea level’ while circumvented the Rooftop Gardens were a duo of yucca plant tops. The busker meanwhile was nowhere to be seen. The only evidence he’d been around recently a floating trilby and balloon power drill.
Right I’m off I need to hoist the main sail to aid my ark navigation otherwise the unthinkable might happen…… I’ll end up in Hull!!