one day sponge forgot to put the other arm on, the one he remembered but not a glimpse of thought about the other. these things happen in a life time you might rightly say. he could take a train for free, the train people said, but there were no trains running that day due to industrial action, some dispute because of something one train person had said to the other train person and it was the wrong thing or said something and it would have been the right thing had it been said to the right person, or nothing had been said at all, which wasn’t what everyone or some expected and to settle all that the trains would not be running. perhaps it was an argument between train man and train woman, some-one suggested. a committee was to provide answers.
sponge decided to catch a bus instead. they offered reduced fare, but no free ride. superior services and the wrong arm missing. sorry mate, the busman said.
sponge wondered if his obsession with public transport was a healthy one.
he spoke fondly of his brollie. how he forgot it one day and had to go back to the house, how he couldn’t find it at first and he looked in the kitchen, just to make sure he had explored all options, but it wasn’t there either, at least he couldn’t see it, so he went back to the sitting room, and, and after only a quick search, some swift browsing, as you might call it, while he thought he had to go and search in the kitchen again, under the old newspapers as it had just come to him that he hadn’t looked there previously, there it was, on the sofa, no idea why he hadn’t seen it before. although it didn’t rain that day at all, it would have worked for most types of rain, he said, urban rain of course. in the country they call them bumbershoots, hand carved and knitted they are, else the downpour would dent the farmer’s head. they call it just rain though.
those farmers, said sponge, are not like the peasants of old.
certainly not, the man said, but these bumbershoots can be very good. this brollie is very good, too. i try to bring it every day and most of the days i succeed although i do have to go back to the house every now and then. just like the other day, when i had to search high and low in the kitchen to no avail. i’ll remember next time.
in the morning sponge put on his arms. he put on his legs then. lastly the head. done. ready to go. i wonder what happens next, he said. usually something happens. a knock on the door. coming, said sponge. i’m coming. he looked around. the room looked as always. another knock. impatient. sponge when to the door with his elbow. are these your hands, the man said. he was the janitor’s helper, surely he was, the janitor had mentioned something about taking somebody on and collected money as well. are the yours, the helper said, and presented a pair of hands. i could do with some, said sponge, they are always useful. the hands were passed on, they fitted. thanks you, said sponge and closed the door. he would be late now, he thought.
evening time he return, took everything off and fell asleep.
29 March, 2010 
