Today I had an encounter with Boris.
I was sitting in the library attempting to work when Boris charged in – made a load of noise – and left again.
He was in the worst of moods. As I would be if I’d left the wide open world to sit in a dusty European studies library created for the specific use of another species.
Boris landed on a copy of Labouring Classes and Dangerous Classes in Paris During the First Half of the Nineteenth Century by and began to mumble angrily. Either he hated social theory or he realised he’d entered the wrong room.
With another ferocious buzz Boris set off, like Columbus to the Americas, in search of greener pastures.
Boris banged his head on the window – more than once. 20 minutes later he was still at it.
I really admired his perseverance.
Eventually after much deliberate to-ing and fro-ing Boris found a path between the wedge of the window frame.
Hastily he scuttled down – looking left and right for a breath of sweet non-library air.
Another shuffle and he was free. Boris flew off.
As I turned back to my artificially lit computer screen I thought to myself – the world is really just made of up of millions of tiny adventures like Boris’.