Pudding Pie

He shook his head, like pudding pie, a jumbled sludge of softened crust and doughy centre, clear thought at the minute a figment. ‘No time for this,’ he thought, his mind too tired for words or thought or anything of use. Use. It was useless to think of how she had done this, what ‘this’ had been. He knew it was coming but still he had sat, atop a horse made of mashed potato, the tidal wave of gravy so ready to come. She'd rolled him, kicked him, thrown him all over and out. He wouldn't do it again, he wouldn't wait, this was something that did not need to be undone, but something to be built upon.

Cafe Sahara

How do you make chance encounters happen? Being by definition, chance, it would seem that it's not really possible. I, however, would like to take a more positive approach. Being in the right place at the right time is not something that is seemingly left to chance. For example, if you live in the Sahara your whole life, you are unlikely to run into Simon Pegg in an Islington cafe. This is simply because Islington isn't in the Sahara, it's in Islington. And as far as I know, nor are there any cafes in the Sahara at any case, although I would love to be proved wrong on this one. The idea of sipping a freshly brewed Earl Grey whilst trying to keep sand out of your sugar bowl is something that is strangely appealing to me.
But to chance, and the simple theory of mine that it may still be inherently random, but you can always increase your chances of making the odds a little fatter, like the returns line at Target after Christmas. This can be done, I hope, but putting yourself out there, in the proverbial line of fire, ready to catch the bullets in your teeth with a smile, wholly with the belief that the risk is more than worth the reward.
To say I believe it is one thing, but to clearly know how to do it it but another of life's questions that no one ever seems to save the answers to on their portable hard drive. But worry not, I shall blaze a trail of my own, make the steps and lay the plans, hedge the bets and continue to use worn out metaphors to explain why I want to take the fight to Chance, raise my sword in glory and take what's rightfully mine. Wish me luck, it can't possibly hurt. S.H.