when alan came to london town

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I've been thinking about Alan quite a lot over the last twenty-four hours. Who? I see your confuddled faces scrunched up as you think. You know, that guy from Cheddar in Somerset. Striking blue eyes, but no heart or personality to write home about. I was curious as to what Alan would think of the world today. If we picked him up, fast forwarded him ten thousand years and plonked him down in the heart of London, what would go through his head? Probably nothing, I suppose, mostly because the shock of it would have killed him. Can you imagine? One day you’re sitting around the fire, reminiscing about Yvonne with your mates, drinking weird berry squash and munching on spit-roasted bunny, laughing about that time you all got trolled by those guys from the next valley, and suddenly you find yourself surrounded by nothing that you can understand. You’re in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, your blue eyes twinkling in the bright lights of digital adverts and the glare of vehicle headlamps. People stumble into you without seeing you, wearing odd garments. They babble in a language you’ve never heard before, their faces glued to the little screen in front of them. A couple of them have small dogs on leads. The dogs {are they just little wolves, you ask yourself} bark at you. A humming noise fills the air and the ground beneath your feet won’t stop grumbling, it’s vibrations tickling your toes. Your head is filled with the shrieks of party-goers, the clickety-clacketing of heels, the horns of buses and the revving of car engines. Music comes from the sky and a helicopter roars overhead. The smell of hotdogs, burgers, petrol and perfume causes your eyes to water and your nose to quiver. You have no words for any of this. It's beyond your understanding in all ways. And so you probably drop down dead through shock. Poor Alan. I hope this isn't what happened to him.