bogeys at one o'clock

Yesterday at work, I found myself daydreaming into a sort of waking slumber, much like the transition from coma to conscious, but reversaled. Before long, I had daydreamed myself into a subconscious nose-pick, which finds one’s forefinger in full insertion, accompanied by a kind of inane, snarly smile which reveals the toppermost upteeth, half guarded by the picking hand’s knucklefist. For what seemed like 50 years, I cleaned my nasal dumpyard, before I noted that I was being addressed from the door. I soon realised that I had clean forgotten about my other nostril, but that, since my name had been called thrice already, I had been well and truly exposed in mongish snoutrummage.

It was at this point that I faced two rather interesting options. Either I cease with my pickings, and attempt to re-establish decorum by initiating an invitation for the other party to knowingly pretend that neither of us had seen the nosepick or been seen conducting the nosepick, or I extend my already picturesque grimace. I decided, in the heat of the moment, upon the latter, turning my snarl into a sort of confrontational scowl akin to the expression of dogs on “BEWARE” signs. My free left hand raised itself to the air, and swivelled repeatedly, speedily yet controllably on its wrist axis, similar to the technique perfected by black and white minstrels. Releasing a loud and volumous noseblow, aided in part by my finger’s starving my nose of oxypassage, I rose up from my seat, and leaned towards what had now become my victim. Like some kind of savage native of Godknowswhere, there was something unspeakably understood in this new relationship which was being forged before my very eyes. Belter.