Micheal O'Dowd was falling. This was not a new sensation for him, he'd been plumetting for as long as he could remember. His memory however was not what it once was and he couldn't exactly be sure how long his current descent had been in swing. He was certain of one thing though. Falling was supposed to be a vertical thing.
Micheal was absolutely certain that he'd seen the bridge he was falling over before. Not under, not past and not even from, no Mr O'Dowd was in the midst of tumbling over the Hammersmith bridge. A sudden sense of queasiness overtook him and he tried for a moment to find something to grab hold of as the great fairy lit bridge raced past him. Like one of those art student photos or cheap car adverts, where the lights blurred into one and all motion becomes just a haze of neon.
He was utterly sick of his current condition. So far today he'd plunged across most of central London. He'd dived along Hyde Park corner and plummeted past Buckingham Palace. He was not only tired of falling he was actually getting tired.
There comes a point in most good crisis', where despite one's own sense of mortal peril, exhaustion will nudge you into a good deal of slumber. Micheal O'Dowd was well beyond this point. Promptly he fell asleep.
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