Monday, Mancunian Way....

7.50am and stationary in westbound traffic. Eastbound is moving, cars, lorries, bikes. The bright red of a burning cigarette tumbles over the central reservation and lands beside an upright tyranosaurus rex who collects it, takes a drag and declares Mondays are alright by him. Granted the TR was only 10 inches tall and had most likely been abandoned by a child, or thrown from a car, or both. His fate nevertheless intrigues me so I wind the window open and shout,

"Hey you, T Rex!"
He was American and inquired, "Yeah?"
"Whatchadoin there?"
"Bub," He said, "It's a long story."
"Well?" I said.
And he replied, "I was owned by this kid with a permanent cold. Snot everywhere, alway snot and when not runny it was crusty..."

Ahead of me a lorry's engine rumbled as the driver began to creep forward. So I said,

"What?" And found second gear.

Little forearms pumped like pistons as the Rex began to run alongside, grasping his cigarette, gasping for breath.

"...snot," He said.

"Yeah snot snot, got that." I said and reached for third gear.

He upped his pace, little forearms now a blur, shanks pedalling with speed until he tripped under the wheels of a following refuse and was squashed flat.

Pulling away I thought 'Bugger, there's nothing worse than a tale half told.'

Then I cheered up because he was wrong about Mondays.

Mondays are shite.