Monday: bad beige suit,

a state, so Tuesday:

navy business, Wednesday:

navy business. Then an armpit 

popped stitches mid-

big yawn, and the jury

flinched – an eggbox,

quaking – so Thursday: 

fitted; fresh tarmac bisecting

countryside with a relaxed

whoosh; dubbed, alas, ‘smug’,

so the plan was, Friday: naked.

Let them witness the animal

they have displayed, let big

lightning stand in the middle

of the built indoors. But of course

there was no Friday.