A Contemporary Tale of Cupid’s Arrow
Love’s a magic bullet to the heart. You still have a pulse after it hits you but you lose control of everything else, especially your mind. That’s the price of survival, it seems. If being rendered comatose with connubial bliss with no instinct for self-preservation can be termed survival. And it’s not just teenagers and late bloomers who are at risk here! Grown men succumb to the bullets in their dozens, falling daily. Women are being smitten too, although they are a bit more adept at concealing their wounds than are the men.
Some say it’s in the wrist, but I’ve seen guys struck dumb by a Bullet of Love at the merest glance from a potential paramour. It’s frightening to behold especially as my personal experience, is still fresh in my memory. It seems like yesterday that I was mortally stricken by one of those infernal projectiles. It happened outside a party in Rosebank, Cape Town. All it took was a split second’s exposure and; BANG! I’d had it. And I’ve still got it. Love bullets play for keeps. The bullet that got me was fired in the winter of 1969 or 70, so I know what I’m talking about. It was so cold I had my hands in my overcoat pockets to keep them warm. So there was no wrist action at all!
Interestingly, the bullet had a mate which struck a nubile young maiden right in front of me. We joined forces almost immediately and are still investigating the phenomenon to this day. Forty seven years later!
Thanks again for popping in and I trust that you enjoyed your reading. Peter Mark Wells-Garnett © 28_01_2017.