Mr. Pit on the moon.
This time, it had taken quite a few hours longer than previously, for Mr. Pit to divest himself of the hempen safety harness which his three spouses and his very good friend Gav had so kindly assisted him in donning for his own comfort and safety during his flight to the bottom floor of his miniature mobile home. Why was this so, Mr Pit was wont to enquire of no-one in particular ? He had to admit that the safety harness appeared to have outweighed its usefulness, since he now could quite easily find his way unassisted to the bottom floor. This familiarity had also reduced the risk of physical injury in the descent, to the extent that Mr. Pit was beginning to think that the safety harness was completely redundant.

Perhaps the violent twitching which had previously afflicted all of Mr. Pits muscles, had distracted wife Yelli (why was she being so coy ?  she had not yet even once acknowledged Mr. Pit as a lusting and faithless husband, - what more could she desire. Good god woman, wake up. - But I digress) as she put her years of airborne training into practice to demonstrate the recommended method of fitting the latest marque hempen safety harness in such a way that it was impossible to remove it.

In her distraction, Yelli had neglected to apply sufficient venom in tying the final knot ( knot ?. Why not a buckle and strap, or velcro ? Mr. Pit would enter into some form of correspondence on this matter with the Mongolian manufacturers of the hempen safety harness, at a more convenient time  and incidentally, why was Mr. Pit the only individual involved in this sorry tale who was not referring to the hempen safety harness by the colloquial term, rope ? But again, I digress.)

Free at last, Mr. Pit headed for the Omnibus Terminal, making a fourteen mile detour in order to avoid the local Bingo Emporium, of which he had several unpleasant memories. As he passed the Cathedral, the town pope, who was busy removing the detritus of that afternoons wedding aftermath, using the motorised vacuum cleaner which the town council had obtained by lying through their back teeth to the EEC representative who had been a recent visiting dignitary, said , William, if you rush to the terminal now, youll be just in time to miss the next omnibus to wherever it is youre going. Pax Verbascum you queue jumping pansy. That makes a change  thought the Mr. Pit.

Having finally reached the terminal, it was patently obvious that Mr Pit had indeed missed the next omnibus to wherever it was he was going. (The vagueness at this juncture is due to the fact that the notepad being used to record these adventures was being carried in the hip pocket of Mr. Pits trousers, which the reader may well recall had previously been rather badly soiled, the result being that the relevant page recording his original destination had been rendered unreadable ). Mr.Pit consequently decided to go somewhere else. The only bus still waiting was destined for a tiny hamlet called Please Have a Little Sympathy For My Plight Big Issue Sir, known colloquially as Pity Me. Climbing aboard, Mr Pit, took a seat at the rear of the omnibus and settled down for the seventeen hour trip to Pity Me.

Turning left at Scotch Corner, the omnibus driver eventually realised his error and using Mr. Pits mobile telephone, summoned assistance and within five hours, the bus had been hauled from the field and, turning right at Scotch Corner, was once more on its way to Pity Me. Mr. Pit could not explain it , but he had a feeling in his water (not a problem, since he had had the foresight to bring enough incontinence pads to last a lifetime), that he would at last meet up in Pity Me, with the three loves of his life, Yelli, Jay and Galaxy,( in case anybodys forgotten, or even cares, come to that). Admittedly, Mr. Pit didnt give a toss if he never saw or heard again from his very good friend Gav because, despite what everyone seemed to think, Mr. Pit was not that way inclined, although he had been known to help them out occasionally, when they were busy.

Having left the omnibus terminal just as the first flush of summer had flattened the bluebells, snowdrops and daffodils (and several citizens), with torrential rain, occasional blizzards and hurricane force winds, Mr Pit noticed that the fronds of the date palms lining the route, which could be seen marching towards the horizon ( and warmer climes, if they had any sense) were turning brown and beginning to give up their fight against the encroaching winter, although it may have been carbonic acid, so Mr. Pit knew that despite the discomfort he was beginning to sense in his nether regions, the omnibus would soon arrive at its destination. Not so. Three of the omnibus tyres suddenly shed their retreads and the omnibus ground to a halt on a particularly busy stretch of road. Mr.Pit was not immediately aware of this because he was now trying to cope with an agonising burning sensation in the lower half of his body, which could only have been due to an allergy to Mongolian hempen safety harnesses. In the course of trying to cool down the irritation, he accidentally stumbled against the rear window of the omnibus, which to his surprise, felt freezing cold.

He therefore pressed the seat of his trousers against the glass, hoping this would be sufficient to relieve the burning sensation. Again, not so. Mr. Pit was then left with no alternative but to remove his trousers and trolleys, hoping this would not cause his fellow passengers too much embarrassment, and press as hard as he could, his bare flesh against the freezing cold glass. His relief was instantaneous and ecstatic. He did not care one jot how this might appear to anyone in any of the passing vehicles  all except one, that is.

Mr.Pit glanced out of the rear window of the omnibus just as a top of the range Reliant Robin hurtled past. He just had time to notice the four passengers within the automobile before it followed the date palms over the horizon. Surely that could not have been Galaxy driving while Yelli and Jay were trying to control the huge dogs that were busy tearing the throat out of a poor unfortunate hitch hiker who looked remarkably like Mr.Pits very good friend Gav ? Could it ?

Mr. Pit and his Harley Street specialist now share the same cubical in one of the secluded wings of Frankland Hospital for the Criminally Silly. No amount of pleading by the specialist that he was in no way being criminally silly when trying to relieve Mr. Pits agony by smearing KY margarine on the worst affected parts of Mr. Pits anatomy, has been able to convince the authorities that he has been wrongly incarcerated.

-- Anonymous, June 12, 2000