Saint Peter’s craving for recognition

The grey overcast sky greeted me in its full depressing glory. Drop by drop, a mild drizzle provided fertile conditions for a foul mood.

Unimpressed by the holy man’s attempt to keep me in my apartment, I got dressed in an act of absolute pagan defiance. The greater the distance I put between my home and me, the heavier the rain became.

Sneering, the soaking wet and the drenching sweat joined forces to conspire against me on my third layer of clothing. The thick jacket that I had on dealt the final blow of their devilish plan to drown me in my haughtiness, transforming me into a walking swimming pool. Pride comes before a fall. It has been a while since I won my seahorse swimming badge, but I jumped feetfirst into the foul-smelling aqueous soup. I felt barely any discomfort from the belly flop. Mixed in with the concoction produced by my own body, the tears of pain added the necessary pinch of salt to cause the wounds of defiance to burn.

My tangy fragrance attracted an unwelcome guest. Securing a seat at my abundantly decked table, the ravenous wind dug its fangs into my shaking flesh and feasted on my epidermis. Layer for layer of skin, it diligently chewed its way to my trembling bones.

I reached the front door just as the rain stopped and the last dry remnant of the rotten stench of incorrigibility had been washed away.

Saint Peter’s lyrical middle finger taunted me as rays of sunshine flooded the neighbourhood.