Vox Pop

Upson?

Matthew Upson?

CARRICK?

(I understand Fabio phoned Sven’s one-time unknown quantity Theo Walcott while the player was at a golf course. Given his performance on Sunday, that does bring to mind the image of him running up to the tee with intent before swiping the ball into the crowd.)

I woke this morning at about half-5, due in part to some unusual dreams. Nothing violent or sexual or owt, though I could have done without close-up shots of me shaving in slow motion like some out-takes from an arty black-and-white Hungarian film. My morning showers always have Radio 4 in the background – yes, I wake up to Evan Davis – so this morning I had a bit of Farming Today, which introduced me to this hitherto unknown quango.

(Their slogan is hilarious, as it goes, I won’t ruin it for you….)

Why “Alliance”, though? Was there a split in the Salad & Greens Marketing Board? I only remember watercress as the standby science experiment introduced by bored or desperate primary school teachers, that they need a marketing board seems somewhat over ambitious. If there is any chance that someone can explain this to me, I am open to all information.

Bought a new laptop yesterday, and another wireless router. For the latter, a children’s television presenter served me with pound signs in her eyes (“Would you like to upgrade to the SuperSpensiveNoMoreReliable Package?” “…Bwuh?”)

I now await the “activation”. It all seems rather arbitrary. If my experience of office life is anything to go by, mind, I assume the headquarters of this particular ISP has one part-timer, a single in-tray, and a repressive clean desk policy.

The purchases (and drinking at Britain’s smallest pub, has made a dent in my finances (NO, I hear you shout, FOR THE FIRST TIME!). I will pledge, maybe even make moves towards enacting, as close to a detox month as I can…

….Trust me, I was a politician…..

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Dusk’s optimism

These are the shadows embracing, the firm embrace of dream-time loosening, loosening. What strength drawn through the light milk of translucent morning stirrs the consciousness; arms stretched and hands posed as to admire jewellery.

These are the thoughts of uncertainty which melt with the dawn, voices not your own, typeface characterised in colour. If this is the wariness of dawn its partner must be the optimism at dusk.

Your footsteps have been walked before, we call them the witness of strangers, only with the addition of clunking chains. Maybe the touch of fabric against skin, slightest whispers of leaves, twigs, branches, rustling in the chase. Footsteps of a Victorian gentleman starched and bearded: else a lost woman holding up her hand to shade light and deflect attention.

In our hands grasped, an orb, purple and shocking-pink; these are the reputations we do not realise are held by others. Heavy, unusually warm, our bounty we are eager to hide under a plenitude of x’s. Imagine the jagged donut-hole.

Our ironic egg.