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As the dazed populace of the village of Puberty emerge from caves and storm cellars, rubbing their sleepless eyes in incredulity, they find themselves staring at one another as strangers, possibly as enemies in a world torn open like blown flowers inviting looting. Who can resist when “everyone” is doing it. A frantic type of excitement replaces the exhaustion of sheltering in the dark, listening to the barrage above.
Frenetic excitement simulates sexuality; needing only the drums in the night of jungle telegraph to spread, as the reinforcement of one element by another, wind by wave, whip the atmosphere into Walpurgisnacht.
Thus puberty has come to an unmistakeable end. Are the parents dead? Or gone on holiday? Or just sleeping in? Certainly no one is fixing breakfast for the children or hurrying them to school. Hurrah, it must be a bank holiday. Even the bank is broken open and inviting the looters. But wait a moment. Are those spots catching? Is it an epidemic? A wave of panic spreads. The plague, like in the fourteenth century. People are falling. Just exhaustion.