, , ,

The apocalypse is coming.

Signs are everywhere. They are triangular; white with a red border; and have strange iconography of a silhouetted man seemingly trying to raise a massive golf umbrella.

Woke this morning to find holes being dug along the entirety of the road that runs along the top of our little street. A burst water main has spewed water into the gas pipes and they are having to suck it out with industrial hoovers (would be handy to get the crap down the back of the sofa).

All across this city the signs have appeared. Down the length of Princes Street; from the top to the bottom of Leith Walk; cluttering up the junction at Haymarket Station. The dreaded tramworks. Today it was water in the gas main – not that I am accusing the tramworks – tomorrow they will crack open the gates into hell and slavering demons will stalk the streets.

Okay, not writing related, but people need to be warned of the signs.