The Grade

Pippa and Jack frolic in the Sun. Note this doesn’t say ‘The Sun accuses Jack of frolicking with Pippa’. The Latvian Sheepdog gallops in deeper water.

  

Do you know what people do with those cups? They empty them of branded cider and then, because the loos are half a mile away and it will mean pushing their way through a meta-organism that will steal their spot, they widdle in those cups. Then they set the brimming-chalice carefully on the mud and pretend it isn’t their’s. But, and here the horror begins, small children, innocent to the laziness of the grown-up crowd, skip through the throng scooping up cups into ever growing, oozing towers. These can be exchanged at little offices for ten whole pence. It’s like the Thames two-hundred years ago, or Dharavi today. Child-laborers sifting through sewage.
The only black pigeon in Paris. Blessed with gift of foresight he is fully aware of his own mortality. He acts as a muse to no less than five later-day philosophers and is often to be found leading confused policemen to the precise place they are needed, moments before the event occurs. He is my hero. Not even I know his name. He is nameless. He may not be a he.
Competition Time. Name that telegraph pole! Ignore the fluffy tweeties perched on it, just give us the location of the pole. Closes midnight GMT Bonfire night.
FibresEast. We knitters are hardcore.

  

They are almost touching it. Anybody read Solaris by Stanislav Lem? This is how I imagined the wave-forms.

 

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