Of Elder Gods

"The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents."
When he first penned these words in 1926, I'm pretty sure H.P. Lovecraft had somehow transcended time and space itself to watch me in the kitchen at half past eight this morning. For at that very moment, my feeble cerebellum was furiously cogitating several billion things at once, chief among which were the following -

"I'm going to miss my bus"

"Are these trousers ironed?"

"What's for lunch?"

"I haven't brushed my teeth yet.""

STICK YOU, SCALY GREEN BASTARD!"

Ones of these is not like the others.

Our humble tale begins one day hence, when upon leaving the house, I unwittingly unleashed the terrible fury of one Elder god against another. What titanic forces, you ask, could possibly rent asunder the mythical bonds of reality that separate pantheons of beings mighty enough to sow life upon the cosmos, or throw comical lightning bolts from fluffy white clouds? 

Most likely, it was the postman's fault.

You see, our lovely chunk of a dog, Hera, does not like the postman. He has the audacity to put things through her letterbox that might harm me, such as job offers, fragile parcels or envelopes containing cash. So, in an act of doggy derring-do (having savaged the foolish bank statement that had darkened our door), Hera pursued her Hi-Vis clad arch-nemesis in the only fashion she could - leaping nobly upon the low front window sill to ensure no further transgressions. 

Hurr hurr

It was in this brave and defiant act that Hera found herself locked in pitched battle with a malevolent entity that had recently taken up residence in our fair abode. You see, birthday presents in this house come in the variety of 'Toys, Games and Other Cool Shit We Wanted When We Were 13'. So, it was with pride that I presented wee Cthulhu to Gayle on her birthday and he was received with all the good grace one expects when being handed a gruesome, tentacled sea-god of ones own. Utter joy.

For the uninformed, here's Cthulhu, nestled between a wolf-headed motorcycle and Jack Skellington's metal wine-stopper head.

The Thing That Should Not Be - or in this case, The Thing That Should Not Be Left Anywhere The Dog can Get At It, came out of the exchange rather badly. Stories heard in my youth, that to merely look upon Cthulhu was to drown in the depths of madness, clearly didn't take into account being faced with a creature who thinks it is perfectly acceptable to eat dog poo.

And so we come full circle, with me stood in the kitchen, all wrinkly trousers and morning breath, trying vainly to glue a scaly arm back onto the squamous and unutterable king of deep sleepers. I'm sure it's a situation we've all found ourselves in before, convinced that all the subsequent decisions we made that day would be akin to hiring a serial arsonist to guard the matches in a fireworks factory.

But no, this clash of the titans ended in good way (unlike the recent cinematic remake). For from this epic struggle between man, Loctite and proto-Zoidberg, emerged a stronger, more confident me. A man with the unerring certainty that his day could get no worse. One that would not settle simply for the four words "It was a good day.", where too many would suffice.

In his house at Nottingham, daft Simon sits typing.