The Art Of Cartwheeling
‘Nah’, said Chief Switchfoot,’it’s gonna be dead high tide and northerly. It’ll be shit. I’m gonna sleep in.’ And he slept in. ‘Can’t make it’, said The Snake Catcher,’I’ve got an early start.’ And he started early. The night was black and dark. This is not unusual. There were two shadowy figures in the carpark, talking in hushed, depressed tones. The Baboon recognised them by the distinctive glimmer and shine of their respective eyes and teeth. ‘Morning fellas!’, he chirped cheerfully as he bounced towards them, knuckles dragging over the ground, ‘how are yous?’ ‘Shit’, grumbled The Uncle, who is not given to unnecessary positivity, ‘there’s no waves.’ ‘I am very well, thank you’, replied The Space Shuttle, whose outlook of life is of an altogether more brighter stripe, ‘how are you?’ “I’m good, thanks’, The Baboon replied, ‘what’s it look like?’ ‘It’s dead flat’, offered The Uncle morosely, ’it’s like a lake.’ ‘Yes, there’s not a ripple’, agreed Th...