Like an ostrich plunging its quivering head into the sand, a terrified squirrel clinging to a telegraph pole thinks it cannot be seen. But even we supposedly rational humans experience moments of believing we have become invisible. Mine used to happen when sitting on a crowded commuter bus, an idle impression created by disgruntled fellow nine-to-fivers being loathe to acknowledge their equally world-weary counterparts, not alas the successful result of a magical spell to promote physical transparency on my part. Nevertheless, I was often amused by these brief intervals of apparent non-presence, surprised nobody wedged themselves into my lap assuming it was an empty seat.
I am perhaps an uncommonly pale person but rapidly advancing age has yet to condemn me to completely see-through skin and bone, so now that I no longer commute on the bus every day I must resign myself to always being seen. If only I could learn a few invisibility tricks by observing this squirrel, but despite his best efforts to hide he remains almost brazenly conspicuous. He might as well use all his acorns to make an arrow pointing to himself. But why, apart from enjoying a private joke, do I want to be invisible? Well, the season of political canvassers with clipboards and signs waylaying passersby in the street is upon us. Vote for Bozo. Re-elect Numpty. Send Doofus to the Senate. How I wish I could simply slink past them undetected instead of being forced to step into the road to avoid their demented ranting.
