no no no. that can’t be true. tween megane and changing room I’ve flipped my foam into some crevice whereupon I now crawl in vain to trace myself backwards and salvage my right ear. there can be no pounding in front of loose women with a plastic rattle imbalance and a tin acoustic experience that simply won’t do I’ve come all this way. take another look. its that fleece. its all electric. it got toasted. no. hang on, its here somewhere.
I give up. I resign myself to a double plastic burn cavity scenario which might make me go faster to get it over with its not so bad so smashing pumpkins will be inaudible but at least the rest of them will now hear it too. no. but wait. what’s this in the gutter twixt athlete’s foot and wet towels. that’s neary a grey pad from someone’s ipod. they’re probably upstairs right now trying to row to devon with a white plastic tinitus fiddling around their canal. its only got a bit of wax on, that’ll scrape off. lets try it for size. ooh. perfect. and now I have different colours for left and right, just like my shoes. let’s get treading dixie chicks. avast!
35 minutes. I’m not cycling. maximo park.