The Broomstick

It could never really be defined as a walk, which commits one foot in front of the other in roughly equal measure, slower than a jog yet quicker than a shuffle. Nor could it either be described as a march because a march presupposes purpose and Ernest Moss moved without any purpose. What Cicely captured moving towards her at breathless speed was an aimless arrow fired from the fingers of an inebriated archer. Two frail legs bounding and lunging vigourously, the whole entity ebulliently vacillating from side to side and all this movement barely calibrated by his second rate eyesight.
 

Upon recognising Cicely, Moss's method of greeting revealed and antiquated charm, extending first his delicate pink hands which enveloped her wrist followed shortly thereafter by bending a knee to unveil, what was to him an endearing overture, a score of kisses to her unblemished arm. With remarkable animation he rose to vertical and further adorned both sides of her cheek. Within a few seconds the ritual was over thankfully for the receiver.

Cicely, like her botanical namesake was sweet but unlike it didn't have an umbrella. Shaped like a broomstick she had rather long flat feet on top of which sat slim edible legs, curveless midriff, a face countoured with precision to flush out her universally enrapturing features, and the counterpoint, a sad mop of drenched, near black hair.

The Number 82

It was shaped like a cello, the puddle. Less a point of fact than a squinting interpretation which two sharp-nosed women, standing stoically by the curb, admired through a blanket of besieging rain. The taller of the two internally mused that the glassy curves rippled and seethed to the beat of the downpour giving the impression of an ethereal string concerto that Nature herself was conducting. Her thoughts turned to other sounds that could accompany the track. The background hum of traffic perhaps acting as a trombone choir or the rhythmic shuffling of shoes over concrete as percussion. 

The completion of the orchestra was lamentably cut short however when a zestful forefinger and forearm were prodded road-wards by the smaller of the two women, shortly followed by the arrival of the Number 82 bus which courteously pulled in with a sibilant sneeze to serve the aforementioned limbs of the smaller figure and in doing so completely ruined the formation of the puddle, expelling much of its contents over the back of a nearby gentleman much to the amusement of the passengers on the bus. I say amusement because until that juncture the man had been intriguingly scrutinising a branch from a holly tree at unnervingly close quarters rendering several onlookers to believe that they were witnessing the habits of someone extremely peculiar; a feeling that was only compounded when the saturation of the man's coat by the bus drew no reaction from him whatsoever.

What captivated him was this.

A sunburst lichen (Xanthoria parietina). Ernest Moss had walked the same route almost every weekday morning for six years and most mornings he could be found at some point inches away from this particular lichen for reasons that will become explicitly clear later on. But for now a salient truth must be imparted. Ernest was hopelessly unaware that the Number 82 bus he ordinarily caught was pulling away without him on it.