You’re walking along a busy, city centre, street. You’re on your phone, busy making arrangements to meet later, checking your shopping list to see if you’ve got all the things because you won’t be back here for at least another week. The you see it. What the? Yup, it’s a child’s buoyancy ring, inflated and it’s right there, on the footpath, in the city, half a mile from the river or the nearest swimming pool and about two miles from the sea.
You look around, checking for what? A candid camera crew, playing a trick? a crying child whose lost their buoyancy ring? a performance artist in a scuba suit? The possibilities, you realize, could be infinite. Has it been ripped from the clutches of a prospective Olympic gold medalist?
Then it dawns on you, like a cartoon light bulb, illuminating. Farmer Giles, Duke of Argyles, Emma Freuds, Sieg Heils, Nuremberg Trials. Haemorrhoids or Piles, in more common parlance. Someone had driven all the way to town, sitting on a child’s buoyancy ring, to relieve their pain, then got out of their car, the ring stuck to their ass and walked away, unheeding, leaving their butt cushion, abandoned.
So you walk on, relieved you’ve solved the mystery. Or have you?