Madman

Dear Diary,

I had to wait an hour or so betwixt buses here in Wells. As I regarded the timetable a man was talking to himself, aggressively, accusing all about him of being 'grasses' (rats, snitches). I peered through the plexiglass an spoke thus, "There's no grasses here." The man started shouting obscenely, getting more and more wound up. He stood up, as tall as an oak, strong as an ox, with arms akin to that of a butcher. He was right up in my grill f'-ing and blinding. The testosterone flared in my sacs, I prepared myself to give the oaf a 'damn good thrashing' should he cast the first stone. Contrary to misguided judgement from my androgynous nemesis I'm not a brawler. This would be the second time I had to defend myself in over fifteen years. Only thoughts of the Tao, and getting to the gig on time, stopped me from stoving the bull of a man there and then! Calm Maxy. Calm. Be at peace. Indeed I was, wholley submissive, and as I walked away, the madmans vulgarities increased in vehemence and volume.

As I rounded the corner I bumped into another tramp, a musician (and I use that term in the loosest sense of the word!) warmly greeted me. I was glad to see the hobo, two heads are better than one, especially for dishing out a series of Glaswegian kisses. Saftey in Numbers (Head, Hands and Feet). No problems, only solutions.

I can just about handle hotheads at home, but here, here is vaugley unfamiliar territory, beyond the bounds of my home-shire. Alas, Maximus Fleximus returns to the acursèd bus-stop, crowned with the ornament that is the local madman.

A man is defined by his actions. Ergo, I am not insane.

Maxx.

Post-Script: I returned unto the bus-station, and saw the wild-eyed old boy laughing with a bearded ancient gentleman. I decided to diffuse the situation, sitting directly opposite him, picking out some guitar (Bluegrass, Folk, and Classical - naturally). He soon chilled the Flex out. As I was about to leave, we approached one another, shook hands, and all was well. Music tames even the wildest beast.

Post-Post Script: I just looked in my (e)mailbox and an email I was sent already flagged as read. Looks like the ghost is in the machine again, and that phantom picks mean banjo...