It was only by accident that I discovered the medicinal nature of gravel. If I remember correctly, it was a particularly crunchy jacket potato that introduced me to the wonders of gravel ingestion. I lost a few teeth that day, but it was worth every shattered molar to experience the rattling in my belly and the faint aroma of tarmac each time my dinner repeated on me.
Those were but minnows to the full whalesque stature of the real gravel experience though. The way it made my eyelids curl, my legs foam and my teeth grow back twice as resistant to moss as before, kept me grinning for weeks. And let’s be honest, who wouldn’t if they were sporting teeth as moss-free as mine now were?
Such was the wonder of it all I got carried away. I put myself onto a strict diet of nothing but gravel. I rolled across every road I encountered hoping to accidentally have a delicious gravel chip stray into my mouth. I experimented with gravel gravy. And I befriended lots of men who wore bright yellow jackets and sat drinking tea behind miles of cone restricted A roads. Days were happy and bright. I occasionally had to pinch myself just to check my fingers still worked.
But like most things in my life, this wasn’t to last. On my daily roll across the A14 I was struck by the thought that nobody else seemed to be participating in this activity. Were they all mad? Surely. For if they knew what I knew, nobody would leave their vehicle’s tyres to experience the pleasure alone.
I set about getting myself a big hairy audacious goal of evangelising the role of rolling in gravel.
Step one was to get people out of their cars.
Easy.
As I rolled across the A14, I replaced each gravel chip I scooped into my mouth with the only things I could lay my hands on in quantity – some nails I found in Matron’s underwear drawyer. After 17 deliriously resplendent rolls, I was well on my way to having enough nails scattered about to tempt people out of their cars on the promise of a free nail. Then I could have a meaningful conversations with them about the virtues of gravel. Genius.
But that’s when rush hour started. And coincidentally the loud crashing noises. And then shortly after that the wailing siren noises and people screaming as if in pain noises. Now how was I going to talk to people about gravel with all this noise and commotion? I didn’t know. I panicked. I couldn’t breathe. I put my hands over my ears. I felt the need to sing Kylie songs very loud. I had to leave. I needed to think.
That was made altogether easier when some nice young gentlemen in uniforms escorted me away from that terrible scene into a lovely car with comfy seats and heavy restraints. And they didn’t even notice that I had secretly kept some gravel in my mouth and that as they drove, my teeth were getting less and less covered in moss with each kilometer passed.
When Matron heard of my eventful day, she tutted loudly. She thanked the nice men who had brought me back and gave me a special treat. Some lovely new pills, just for me.
They make me very happy.
Very splendid indeed.
I drink lead paint 