I was halfway to work this morning when I realised I’d come out without my head. Absent minded, you might say, and you’d be right.
My first inkling that all was not normal was the conspicuous lightness of my being. After all, my head is heavy. I spend most of my time trying to stuff it full of things I think I may want or need. I never do, but why take chances, right?
I stopped for a moment and wondered: should I go back and get my head? It’s full of indispensible stuff, after all. And where am I going to put all the stuff from today that I want to keep and drag around with me on the off-chance that I may need it at some indefinable point in the future?
The thing is, I was quite enjoying not having my head. What’s more, I couldn’t remember anything that was in it anyway.
I decided to risk it, to go “sans-head”, as it were.
The sun was shining, and the cars glimmered in the blue morning as I floated down the pavement like a long feather. It’s lucky we’ve got gravity, or I may have floated off into the atmosphere and never come back.
I saw a besuited office worker sitting on a bench, grimacing into his coffee. It was all going wrong for him this morning, you could see that. Not only did he have his head with him, but it was covered in screaming red acne. It looked like it could use a good soak in some vinegar.
For a moment I pondered the idea of joining him on the bench; to suggest that he just leave his head right there and go about his business without the bloody thing; that he’d probably have a much better day without it, or at least, if he insisted on carrying it around for the rest of the day, to take it off as soon as he got home and give it a nice long soak.
Of course, reason and good manners got the better of me, and prevented me from making such a faux pas. I remembered that when I’m sitting there with my head full of heavy irrelevant junk, the last thing I want is to be molested by somebody so frivolously headless. In fact, I’m hoping to see them get hit by traffic.
Not only that, but he had a bag, which in itself was bursting with stuff. Someone with a bag like that is unlikely to see the value of getting rid of their head. In fact they’re probably in the market for an even bigger bag or a bigger head; maybe even a huge filing cabinet.
So off on my way I went, my spirit abounding with headless joy.
When I got home in the evening, I propped my head on the kitchen table, and considered it as I had dinner.
Isn’t it strange, I thought to myself, that such an innocuous body part could harbour such sinister motives? And to think: had I not absent-mindedly neglected to take my head to work with me this morning, I might never have known about it. I might still be labouring under the delusion that I can’t live without my head, and then where would I be? Grimacing into my coffee and wondering why my day is turning out so badly, no doubt.
That did it. I said to my head:
“You’ve had your fun, mate. No longer am I going to be dictated to by you, you bony devil.”
And with that, I buried it in the garden, among the cabbages.
Fertilizer, you know.