My mother lived in a town with more eccentrics per capita than other towns with similar populations.
I know. I did the research.
More self-talkers as walkers. More cat, bag and Avon ladies.
More old men arguing with other old men. Hard to get a seat in the park.
More photographers of old men arguing. And of Avon ladies.
A stroll down any street revealed the madness. Who paints their lawn in patriotic colours?
Where else would someone check to see if their garbage had been ticketed rather than assume the truck broke down?
Logic is replaced by lunacy. Over heard conversations boogle the head.
“It only happens when cats have kittens.” “What if they have puppies?” “Then it’s sure to rain until the reservoir’s dry.”
A stop at the donut shop is having tea with the Mad Hatter. A date with chaos.
I always thought it was the water.
The craziness common denominator.
I filtered all I drank.
I forgot about osmosis; the tiny pores in the skin.
So, on any given yadseut:
“’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, [d]id gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves, [a]nd the mome raths outgrabe.”*
Concocted for Rattling Bones, Tuesday Photo Prompt 6.
* Jabberwocky, Lewis Carroll